


To Thine Own Self Be True

by Trovia



Series: To Thine Own Self Be True [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Clinical Depression, Coming Out, Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-08
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trovia/pseuds/Trovia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say there is no such thing as a gay wizard. Especially amongst the Aurors. And the purebloods are the ones to say it loudest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wizard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lls_mutant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lls_mutant/gifts), [safenthecity](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=safenthecity).
  * A translation of [Flugträume](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1981) by Trovia. 



Kingsley Shacklebolt learnt that he was a wizard at nine.

It happened at a soccer game on a hot summer day. At nine, Kingsley was taller than most twelve-year-olds, playing goalkeeper. Today, however, he wasn’t very good, and the other team had already made two goals because of him. The boys from the other team had been teasing him, calling him a stupid blackie. He was so frustrated that he wanted to cry. He really wanted his team to win. So when the ball shot towards the upper left corner mercilessly yet again, Kingsley jumped into a perfect parry, flying higher, and higher, while the ball froze in midair so he could pick it like a plum. Gently, he set down on the goal line.

There was deafening silence on the pitch. All assembled parents and players were staring at him. His mother sobbed once, then dragged him off the pitch. As soon as they were home, she called Kingsley’s father, talking to him in upset staccato until he agreed to come home. For two long hours, Kingsley worried about what he could have done wrong. Then, his parents called him to the living room and explained to him that his father was a wizard, and that he, too, would learn how to do charm work at the magic school of Hogwarts within just two years’ time.

For Kingsley, all this was very confusing if also quite cool, no matter he was sad that he wasn’t allowed to play soccer anymore (in Hogwarts, however, he’d learn about Quidditch. The grief would grow old and die). Instead, he soon found himself skimming through charms books and Wizarding encyclopedias, and his father gave him a children’s wand.

“Dad,” he asked his father one day after dinner, “How come you never told me that I’m a wizard?”

His father had sighed, looking older than he usually did. “The Wizarding world isn’t as safe a place as your world, lad,” he’d said, “We’re at war against a man who doesn’t like Muggles like your mother, and children of Muggles like yourself. You wouldn’t be able to defend yourselves there.”

So when Kingsley went to Hogwarts, joining the huge, exciting magic world, he sat down in the first row in class with boyish gravity to learn how to defend himself. It made a lot of sense to do so in his opinion; ever since he’d gotten his letter, his mother had been afraid for him. He was a Hufflepuff now, winning points for his house by being a dedicated pupil in class and a fair Beater on the pitch. And the war ended when he started his sixth year, anyway.

However, Kingsley had already reached two conclusions at this point: First of all, he wanted to be an Auror, like his father working at the Law Enforcement Squad, except better. Second of all, he had all kinds of reasons to watch out in the Wizarding world, because he wasn’t just a Half-blood. He was also gay.

* * *

It was a summer morning in 1993 when Kingsley came to work and was greeted by chaos. Memos were thrashing about nervously, Aurors were arguing in the hallways, while the door to Scrimgeour’s office stayed firmly shut. When Kingsley asked about the cause of all this, somebody just handed him the newspaper. It had made the headlines while he was asleep: Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban.

Later, Kingsley would remember how he’d looked down at the photograph for a moment, at the escapee’s vampire face, as motionless as gaunt. It would sometimes lift its eyes to stare at its audience without blinking. Kingsley blinked, though, remembering, against his will, Quidditch in Hogwarts. Black had long finished school when Kingsley made the team, but he remembered the pliant Gryffindor Beater from his first year. He’d stared into the sky in wonder while that exuberant boy made Quidditch look like just another kind of magic. The murderer on the photograph might as well have been a different man.

But then Scrimgeour’s door opened, and the Commander of the Aurors limped out to drag Kingsley into his office. Amelia Bones was waiting there, eyeing Kingsley from top to bottom, when she wouldn’t ever have noticed him before even if he’d done a striptease in the middle of the DMLE.

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Scrimgeour had said as if exhibiting a valued piece of furniture. “Our best investigator since Moody retired. You give him a strand of hair, and he’ll tell you not just where it’s from, but also what the owner ate last. He’s an excellent duelist. His bat-bogey hex blows even you off your feet, ma’am. And he is perfectly neutral. Half-blood. No connections to the pureblood families whatsoever.”

Amelia Bones was still eyeing him suspiciously through her monocle. “When did you start your training, young man?”

“In 1983, ma’am,” Kingsley said. “I was part of post-war recruitment.” There hadn’t been that many Aurors left after the war, rows upon rows of empty desks waiting for new dragon fodder in the main office. Those who hadn’t died had quit as soon as they could do so in good conscience, running from bad memories and ghosts of lost comrades as far as they could. People had just wanted to forget.

“Excellent,” Miss Bones said, giving Scrimgeour a sharp nod.

It was the first and only time in Kingsley’s life that his Half-blood status had advanced his career.

* * *

A month later, Kingsley had found every photograph ever taken of Black, every letter he’d written that people hadn’t burned in fury, every status report Black had ever signed as an Auror. The wall of his cubicle was hung with shots of the best man dance at the Potter’s wedding; the supreme smirk of a victorious seventh year brandishing the Quidditch cup; the blank features of the proper pureblood on the family portrait; press photographs of the young Auror who’d been famous by virtue of not dying.

The veterans amongst the DMLE had started avoiding Kingsley’s desk.

Kingsley knew everything there was to know about this man but didn’t have the slightest clue where he was hiding. He went to speak to old friends of Black’s who slammed the door in his face, claiming they hadn’t known Black that well after all. He went to Azkaban to talk to the Lestranges, but they just laughed at him - if Black had ever even been close to any Death Eaters at all, they were either dead or bonkers now. His colleagues were quick to point out that Black had been assigned to Frank Longbottom’s team, and Lydia Corday’s before that - the lost and the dead. _He might have been a failure of the Aurors, but he wasn’t mine._

 _I’ve been dreaming of you last night,_ Black had written in a letter addressed to Remus Lupin at fifteen on the summer vacation. It provided a sharp contrast to his usual short, edgy letters, written in an impatient boy’s hand. _You were the wolf and it was a full moon but your fur was red and gold, and you were calm, and allowed me to pet you. James looked it up in his textbook. He says it means we’ll win the Quidditch cup next year but I think it means you can stop worrying when you’re with us in Hogwarts. But I still worry when you aren’t in Hogwarts, I remember your shag. How are you holding up?_

On Halloween of all days, Black broke into Hogwarts unseen, ravaging the portrait of the Fat Lady, but Kingsley knew as little about how he had managed to do so as he could find out how Black had managed to escape from Azkaban in the first place. He suspected that Lupin was holding back vital information, but if the teacher was lying, he was lying like a Slytherin.

Later that year, Black invaded the Gryffindor dormitory to threaten one of Harry Potter’s friends with a knife. Again Kingsley couldn’t figure out how he had done so, no matter why he had. Scrimgeour had to resort to vicious threats to protect Kingsley from the wrath of the Wizengamot; people were scared. Kingsley took it in his stride when Cadet Tonks was assigned to him to do his research, a clear message that he wasn’t doing well enough. He refused to comment on Albus Dumbledore’s words of concern and preferred to wonder why Black still hadn’t bothered stealing a wand. Either he was more insane than Kingsley believed, or he was a lot more powerful. Naturally, it was a common assumption that this man was as mad as a hatter, but Kingsley wasn’t so sure. You needed a sharp mind to escape from Azkaban. It was his job to assume the worst. Black had already proven to be dizzyingly sharp, and a sane Death Eater posed much more of a danger than a cackling one.

 _Left home for good, staying at James’_ , a messy note had informed Peter Pettigrew in 1976, a stain of what looked like tomato sauce splashed over it. _Mr. Potter is helping me find a place to live._ Then, doubly underlined: _I hope I’ll live just long enough to bury them._

During the Lupin affair at the end of the year, Kingsley managed to piss off Severus Snape with his questions, to be criticized by the Wizengamot even more, and to bond over shared misery with newly graduated Auror Tonks. He didn’t have a personal life left, which was why his boyfriend left him - a Muggle who hadn’t liked being kept secret in the first place. While the rest of Headquarters traveled the country in preparation of first the world cup, then the Triwizard Tournament, Kingsley spoke to his witnesses again, thinking hard about unsolved riddles. He reached a conclusion that shook him to his core.

He reached this conclusion because Albus Dumbledore had stopped addressing the Black issue in the Wizengamot altogether; Remus Lupin didn’t just talk to him these days but also was convinced, now that he’d thought about it for a year, that Black had always wanted to holiday in Chile. It was a horrible conclusion, a conclusion too unbelievable to even be considered. But Kingsley didn’t give up on a hypothesis just because he didn’t like it. Also, thinking of Mike moving out from the apartment they’d shared, it wasn’t exactly the first shocking conclusion in his life.

Kingsley tried talking to Tonks about it, but Tonks had just recently drawn her own conclusions about the nature of their relationship with each other. Since Kingsley had had to decline the offer without much of an explanation, Tonks was only talking to him when she absolutely had to.

So he went to see Scrimgeour, who threw his hands up in horror. He’d have to send Kingsley to St. Mungo for a check-up, he said, and find a replacement, if the case was getting to him like that.

But then that tragedy at the Tournament killed poor Cedric Diggory, and Kingsley finally accepted that much was going on in the Wizarding world that he hadn’t any knowledge of at all.

Two days after the end of term, he went to Hogwarts to see Albus Dumbledore.

“Deny it all you want,” Kingsley said. “I know Black has to be innocent, and you know it as well. The only difference is that you know why.”

Albus Dumbledore gave him a long, serious look.

“Mr. Shacklebolt,” he said evenly, folding his hands, “Have you ever heard of an organization called the Order of the Phoenix?”

* * *

Sirius Black made the impression of a panther behind cage bars, crouched to attack, muscles flexing under shining fur and watching its spectators with dangerous vigilant eyes. Everything about him looked darker than it should be, drawing eyes as if there was something even more powerful to him than magic. Though all he did was get up from behind the kitchen table of 12 Grimmauld Place and shake Kingsley’s hand.

His palm felt hard and calloused, and Kingsley thought of twelve years of Azkaban, of two years of flight. He knew everything there was to know about this man except all the important things.

“I’m in charge of the investigation against you,” he said. “It’s an honor.”

“I’m sure it is,” Black said with a sardonic smirk. “It’s not exactly a pleasure to learn that you’ve been wasting two years of your time. Working for a corrupt government, no less. I hope it didn’t destroy all your illusions just yet.”

Sirius Black was a strange mix of the charming young bloke on the photographs, except not charming, and the motionless murderer on the search warrants, except not motionless. It was a mix that couldn’t be more different from the reckless enemy, the martyr hero he’d become in Kingsley’s head.

It was downright disappointing.


	2. The Pureblood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What if we’ll end up in Azkaban like Sturgis and Sirius?" Tonks said. "They'd just let us rot there as well."_

“What in hell’s name were you _thinking_ , Tonks?”

Kingsley consisted of two hundred pounds of well-trained muscle and tended to tower even over Hippogriffs. His low, sonorous voice, used to screaming orders at cadets, didn’t make him an altogether unobtrusive person, either. So like most massive men, Kingsley had learned to move cautiously without breaking anything and to generally not stick out.

However, that didn’t apply when duty was involved. Kingsley had no sense of humor about duty, and he happened to be Nymphadora’s boss. When he threw the Black file onto her kitchen table, she visibly flinched. Though Kingsley didn’t care if she regretted having let him into her apartment. The grace period was over for Tonks.

“I’m sent on field duty _once_. I leave you alone with a case for _only three days_.” Every word was a whiplash. “I take _two days_ to read up on your work because I _trust_ you...” His voice became dangerously low. “Just to end up with a file as obviously fake as Hufflepuff’s beard. Give me one reason, Tonks, just one for me to not go to Scrimgeour and have you fired for good.”

Kingsley was in no mood to tolerate incompetence in the first place; this week had been pure misery. Scrimgeour had put him on Dawlish’s team, a team hunting vampires no less - and Kingsley hated vampires. That brat of a Nosferatu had almost bitten him in the shin, and when he’d gone to his favorite Muggle bar to cool off, he’d run into Mike. Now, topping everything that had happened before, he’d learned that Tonks had spiked his precious Black file with lies, lies obvious enough for even the Office for _Muggle Artifacts_ to spot them from a mile away. The offense was two-fold: One, the betrayal. And two, the incompetence with which it had been executed. He’d thought they’d taught her better than that.

A strand of her pink hair transforming into shy dishwater brown, Tonks peered up at him. “You’d cover an Order’s member’s back?” she offered.

“ _Wrong_ ,” Kingsley thundered. “I make sure that there are only _competent_ people in the Order!”

“You like me too much to have me fired?”

Kingsley just stared her down darkly.

Tonks sighed, dropping the pretense. “You’ll let me serve you tea, and listen and realize that it’s an excellent idea?”

Kingsley rolled his eyes.

“Please?” she added.

The Auror gave in. Sigh heavy with frustration, he sat down on one of the two chairs in Tonks’ tiny kitchen. He waited impatiently while she stood up, bumping against a corner of the table, starting a search for something to transform into cups.

On general principle, it was a nice evening: cozy summer sun pouring through the pitched roof window, and the distant shouts of children, playing down on Diagon Alley, providing amicable background noises. In another world, he could be out to see a movie with Mike just now, Kingsley thought with longing. He could be in a pub, getting reacquainted with some of his Muggle friends, if he wouldn’t have to fear running into Mike. Instead, he was here, awaiting blackmail by tea.

When he cleared his voice as a warning that his patience was running low, Tonks turned to face him.

“I’m working on a plan to improve on humankind overall,” she said and threw him a beaming smile. “It’s a great plan, I thought about it for quite a long time. It will heighten the sense of community within the Order so that there’ll be a lot more enthusiasm for the cause, followed by greater efficiency, causing us to win the war. Once it breaks out, I mean,” she added thoughtfully. “Do you think it’ll break out soon?”

Kingsley snorted. Instead of answering, he just raised the Black file and waved it meaningfully. Even closed, it looked just as important and official as it was. Pitch black, magically sealed with multiple passwords, engraved with the Ministry’s crest and secured with a variety of Aurors’ charms. Black’s file was incredibly confidential. As a first year Auror, Tonks was blessed to be permitted to open it.

“Right,” Tonks said, returning her eyes to her tea preparations. “Do you remember how you talked to Professor Dumbledore about Sirius? When he said we had no time to take care of his legal situation now? See, I think he’s wrong. He could be, couldn’t he? He’s getting quite old. Surely he can’t have assumed we’ll have _more_ time once the war breaks out, that would make no sense whatsoever. So I’ve been talking to Dung and he had some great ideas about how we could fudge Sirius’ case instead of just claiming he’s abroad.”

“Dung,” Kingsley said slowly. He must have misheard.

“Yes,” Tonks said. She waved her wand with too much enthusiasm, making the teapot jump with a clattering start. The water started boiling rapidly. “Dung knows a lot about how to fake evidence, did you know? We thought it wouldn’t hurt to start paving the way. No harm in preparing the acquittal, right?”

“Acquittal,” Kingsley said weakly. Ignoring the clanking of the cups for a moment, he reached for the file again to thumb through it. It had been so pretty before. All filed away methodically. Dozens of meticulous notes. Colored markers. All those things were still there but now, they were disfigured by the ugly elements. Slight changes of wording to encourage a reader to suspect that not all was what it seemed. Conclusions in the profile that had never been brought up before.

Tonks had found - or possibly invented - a respectable old witch who claimed that Sirius Black had been leading a calm, peaceful life as a ticket clerk on a Muggle racetrack for years, clearly not hating Muggles at all since he petted them lovingly on a regular basis. She cited the interrogation of a Muggle who’d survived Pettigrew’s curse - an interrogation that had never taken place - having him claim the supposedly dead Pettigrew had flown away afterwards on a Hippogriff. Or possibly on a winged pig, Kingsley wasn’t clear on that part. At almost every crime scene ever investigated on occasion of this case, she’d fudged findings of rat hair: Godric’s Hollow, the hallways of Hogwarts, Potter’s home in Surrey - the only place missing was Black’s cell in Azkaban. And if Kingsley were honest, Tonks hadn’t even been that incompetent about it. Those colleagues who knew as little about Muggles as herself would certainly be fooled for a while. However, the task was too much for a first year Auror to take on - it was madness for almost every Auror, frankly. She should have known better.

His cup came sailing through the air, hitting the tabletop hard. Kingsley repaired the crack on it with an absent-minded wave of his wand.

“Kingsley,” Tonks was saying. Kingsley looked up to see that she’d sat down on the other chair across the table, looking at him with intense, evocative brown eyes - her true eye color. “We can _do_ something for Sirius. He needs people like us to do something for him. We became _Aurors_ to protect men like him. He _needs_ us and if we don’t do anything for him, he’ll still be stuck in Grimmauld Place _ten years from now._ ”

Kingsley grimaced. In his opinion, Sirius Black could go to hell, but maybe he’d done that already and come back because he hadn’t been wanted there, either. Although Kingsley had only been in the Order for two months, he already knew that Black was trouble. First, he’d disagreed with everything and everybody, questioning all of Dumbledore’s plans. Most recently, he’d just been looming in the shadows, giving everybody dark looks and spreading a mood of impending doom. He was bad for the atmosphere in the house. He was terrible for morale. He carried a grudge against Snape and against Professor Dumbledore, apparently, as well. He upset Molly on a regular basis; he demanded a vote on everything although he didn’t ever do anything. He gave Kingsley a hard time by creating more work for him at the Ministry by sheer existence, and Kingsley was never sure if Black wouldn’t just lose patience one day, going on a stroll through London and getting Kingsley fired by not being in Chile.

Black was a _menace_ , he was utterly useless. He caused more work than Grimmauld Place was worth. He endangered their mission, most likely risking Harry Potter’s safety in the process, influencing the sprog in Merlin knew which way. Before they’d settled on guarding the prophecy in the Ministry without the DMLE’s knowledge, he had proposed, in all seriousness, that they themselves could break into the Ministry and steal the prophecy with Potter’s assistance before You-Know-Who could do it himself. _“You don’t win the match by guarding the goals,”_ he’d said, like war was just a game.

“I concur that it might have been a bad idea to start with the file, but I have other ideas, too,” Tonks said, counting them off. “Whenever there’s new evidence, we could make it look like Sirius can’t possibly have been involved. We can find excuses to question Order’s members, the ones with a good reputation, and they can make something up to exonerate him. We could even think about faking proof of his innocence since we’re at it anyway.”

Kingsley shook his head slowly, hoping to make the many long lines fall into the right pigeon holes. He’d only been away from London for few days but apparently, that had been quite enough for Tonks to lose her mind.

“Tonks,” he said helplessly. “Why the fatalism? Why the sudden... _madness_?”

All of a sudden, Tonks looked lost. “Well, because of Sturgis,” she said in a small voice. “And it isn’t madness.”

“Sturgis? Sturgis Podmore? What about him?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

This time, there was nothing fake about the lost look in Tonks’ eyes. “He was captured on guard duty, Kingsley,” she said. “They’ve convicted him to six months of Azkaban already, and nobody is doing anything about it. Although I’m sure they’d let him go sooner if Professor Dumbledore vouched for him.”

Kingsley had frozen. He willed himself to put the tea cup down before he could break it with his fingers. Sturgis Podmore. In Azkaban. _Already_. Kingsley had been to Azkaban, had interrogated prisoners there. The mists that covered the island alone were enough to make him shudder. He didn’t wish Azkaban on anybody.

“And I thought, what if that had been us.” Tonks swallowed, hard. “What if we’ll end up in Azkaban like Sturgis and Sirius. They’d just let us rot there as well. I thought, aren’t we worth anything to them? Are we betraying Scrimgeour and the Ministry just to be Dumbledore’s dragon fodder?” She was pressing her palms on the table flat, so hard her fingers turned white. “I’ll be damned if I don’t do anything for him although I could,” she said emphatically. “I’ll be damned.”

And Kingsley, who knew Tonks well, realized something: She wouldn’t let this go, no matter if he gave her an order or discussed it with her, or pleaded with her. She’d just go on doing it behind his back, manipulating the case and working not only against the Ministry, but also against him. Endangering herself, him, Black, maybe the whole Order - she might be good but she was still a beginner and she wasn’t that good. And she knew that herself, but that wouldn’t stop her either. She couldn’t let that stop herself.

If Kingsley went to Scrimgeour with it, and Scrimgeour got the truth out of her, they were all doomed as well. Truly, if he didn’t want to end up in Azkaban himself, he only had one choice.

He had to start working on Black’s exoneration himself.

* * *

Once upon a time, Kingsley’s mother had lovingly called her son a full-blown Half-blood. She had always loved the fact that Kingsley had never let go of his Muggle roots, never caring that the reason for him not to do so was his sexual identity. It had created a connection between them. While Abe Shacklebolt attended his Wizarding poker nights at the Hog’s Head (forever wondering why his son still wasn’t settling down and getting married to a nice witch), they’d go see the pictures together or visit a fair.

Kingsley _needed_ the Muggle world. It was the place where you weren’t stared at as if you had horns and two heads if he casually mentioned that, by the way, he felt a lot more attracted to men and yes, that really existed, even amongst Aurors. Muggles even had pubs and a subculture where you’d meet men as feminine as they’d decided they wanted to be. In the Wizarding world, they didn’t even know the concept - or if they did, it was something that they vaguely pigeonholed as something to do with dirty restrooms behind Quidditch stadiums. Kingsley hadn’t even _tried_ to explain to Tonks why he wasn’t interested in her like that - Tonks thought that a tolerant wizard _petted_ Muggles.

Though being the kind of wizard who hid his robes in the closet after work to go browse the pubs in Muggle London, Kingsley also had made little contact with the die-hard pureblood Wizards who made up the core of Wizarding England - the old families. Thinking in terms of just magic had never become second nature to him. He’d never even had a single look at Gilderoy Lockhart’s omnipresent books on household magic, no matter that the writer was as hot as a Veela. Kingsley was aware of that at least - he was a Half-blood, not blind.

So when Bill Weasley asked him to uncurse an ancient chest at an Order’s meeting, he stayed behind at the kitchen table, staring at the object full of puzzlement. He was one of the people responsible if Weasley gave a useful new item to the Order, but he hadn’t broken a single curse in his life that hadn’t been spoken by a Dark wizard.

As an experiment, he pointed his wand at it and tried a simple circumvention charm. It didn’t even cause the chest to yawn.

“No need to even try _Complecto_ on a lock of that age,” a voice remarked. Black was lounging in the frame of the door, an apple in hand, taking a bite.

Kingsley suppressed an eyeroll. He immensely disliked the fact that Black always lurked everywhere, no matter where you happened to be in 12 Grimmauld Place. It made him nervous. Every shadow seemed to have a life of its own in this house. However, his mother had also taught him manners while taking him to see the pictures. Kingsley didn’t walk around picking fights with people who’d just offered advice - even if they were being condescending gits about it. Bracing himself, he pushed the chest across the table towards Black and delivered an invite by way of a nod. “Feel free to do your worst.”

For a second, it looked like Black wanted to excuse the interruption and leave. Though then he just pulled himself up and moved closer. While speaking, he reached inside his robes and retrieved a wand. “ _Complecto_ was created in the first war, it doesn’t respond to anything older than Grindelwald’s era,” he said. “You have to use Flitwick’s revelation charms from sixth year, then look up each of the arcane patterns on a reference table. Here.” He tapped on the chest with the tip of his wand. “ _Deprecatio._ ” Thin red lines began to appear around the lock. “And _Translucero Totalus._ ”

A second layer of blue nets appeared with a flash, just to melt away almost immediately. Black shrugged. “In theory, anyway. I can’t do it well with Remus’ old wand.”

Against his will, Kingsley gave him an appreciative nod. “Well, looks like I’ll have to go to the library, anyway. _Finite Incantatem_ ,” he ordered the chest, and the glistering red charm resolved. “I’m surprised you know about Cursebreaking?” he tried not to overemphasize on the _you_. Black had been an Auror alright, but one busy with war. At the time he’d signed on, cadet training had been a stub.

“Just have a look around.” Black gestured to include all of the house as if it was obvious. “If you’re here and you’re twelve, you break curses every day.” He gave Kingsley a sardonic smile. “If you survive the Blacks, you either end up a Death Eater or an Auror. Your department got that almost right.”

For a moment, Kingsley hesitated. He had a lot of work to do these days - acting like he was working on the Black file but fudging it at the same time, guard duty in the Ministry and the occasional task handed on to him by Bill Weasley. Sharing the workload wouldn’t hurt. And anyway, maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to get a closer look at the man he was helping involuntarily. Black was just sitting around being useless anyway. If nothing else, it would provide him with new intel for the cause.

“Would you have time for a lesson tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.” Just for a second, Black’s features relaxed, startlingly so. He didn’t look like a criminal at all, but just like some companionable man in desperate need of something to do. “Bring _Fiddle’s Index of Forgotten Curses_. My schedule is inexplicably empty tomorrow.”

* * *

Three weeks passed.

A single evening hadn’t been enough to crack the complicated safety charms of the chest. So they’d met again. Since Weasley had already been standing at the ready with a triple cursed amulet, it thus became a regular event. The Cursebreaker brought in ever new items that might provide them with a surprise weapon in future battles, and the two of them spent Kingsley’s free evenings figuring out if that was true. Kingsley had a good understanding of the complex charm work they were doing, but Black brought to the table the necessary knowledge about the Dark Arts to pick up on the right cues. Soon, Kingsley understood that what he had thought to be attitude truly was the self-confidence of an experienced wizard who had used to be a soldier.

It still annoyed him sometimes. He’d chased after this man for two years. Black had escaped him with ease every time. He was powerful and he was competent, but he’d managed to escape from Azkaban due to a dizzying ability to calculate risks with the precision of a tightrope dancer - an ability that Kingsley, who also was powerful and competent, had just never had to develop. Every day after work, he’d sit in his apartment with the Black file in front of him, meticulously mixing truths with subtle little lies. Sometimes, he’d try and imagine what would have become of Black if he’d gotten his trial, if Dumbledore had said, _“They told me he was secret keeper”_ instead of, _“He was secret keeper.”_ Black wouldn’t be a shadow at Grimmauld Place. He’d be Kingsley’s superior, and possibly Scrimgeour’s - he’d held more fame in the first war than Scrimgeour - and that rubbed Kingsley in ways both startling and uncomfortable.

The many issues he had with Black didn’t go away (he was a mutinous cynic and a drunk) but they started coloring with mutual respect. Kingsley still thought that Black’s wild ideas for Order’s strategies were madness, but he soon realized that what he had thought to be a childish grudge held against some older Order’s members was just a badly concealed sense of betrayal. Black was stuck at a place he hated with a passion out of loyalty, forced to trust in the support of an Order that didn’t know how to handle him. For a man like him who preferred action over talk, Grimmauld Place basically was just another prison.

At one point when visiting his father, Kingsley talked the old man into giving him the sparkler amongst his captured wands. It was made of ebony with dragon heart string, almost like Black’s old one except longer. From that time on, the subtle charms came easier to Black, and the look in his eye when he remembered what it was like when magic _came_ to you was worth it for Kingsley. A man like Black was just incomplete without a suitable wand.

So Kingsley shouldn’t have been surprised by what happened next. Still, it hit him out of nowhere.

* * *

It was long after midnight when Kingsley entered Number Twelve after a late shift on guard duty. He was in hopes of finding somebody who’d trade shifts with him on short notice. While he was aware that Lupin probably wouldn’t even be home, it was likely that Black had stayed up late, ready to arrange for the change the next day.

The old mansion was covered in darkness and silence. The ground floor was empty except for the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, who took the time for a dig at Kingsley’s heritage before pointing him towards the drawing room.

The moment he touched the heavy door to push it open further, Kingsley heard quiet noises and muttering emanating from the room. Nobody answered his knock, so he entered. The first thing he took note of in the dim candlelight was an open bottle of Firewhiskey on a drawer. The second was Black, asleep on the sofa. The wizard seemed to have passed out drunk, hair unkept and robes half buttoned, and he was having a nightmare. It was easy to gauge what he was dreaming of - he was jerking defensively, and when Kingsley stepped closer, he could hear him muttering, “Don’t,” and then, “He’s in Hogwarts.” Even Kingsley found that creepy.

Without fuss, Kingsley bent over the wizard to call his name and grab his shoulder, shaking him hard.

He didn’t even catch a glimpse of the hand shooting up and grabbing his collar. One moment, he had been trying to wake Black, the next his back was making contact with the rug, hard. A slender shape was holding him down with an iron grip on his throat and a knee in his crotch. Black’s gray eyes were gleaming in the dark, his wand poised for attack, Moody style. He was breathing hard.

“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” Kingsley managed, trying to get up on instinct, but that was Black’s full weight holding him down. While unexpectedly strong, the man was a lightweight, skinny from Azkaban. Kingsley could have shaken him off without trouble. But he didn’t want to hurt him, and awareness was creeping up on Black’s face.

He shook his head very slowly. “Shacklebolt?” His voice was mostly a croak. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Trading shifts,” Kingsley said dryly. “Now would you kindly let me get up?”

Black snorted a laugh. Still, beyond the loosening grip of his hand on Kingsley’s throat, he didn’t make any move towards release. In the flickering candlelight, he looked gaunt, dark circles under his eyes. The smell of alcohol was hitting Kingsley’s face with each exhaled breath, and suddenly, he just felt pity for the wizard. Here and now, in the privacy of his own premises, Black was nothing but a wreck.

Though that didn’t change anything about the fact that his body felt warm and wiry through the thin robes - and again, nicely strong -, and it was everywhere on Kingsley’s, thigh against crotch. It was true, Black was a fairly attractive bloke under the scars of Azkaban. Kingsley didn’t usually let himself notice that. The touch felt good; he’d missed this during the long months of hard work, and his body was reacting to the offer. _Oh in Merlin’s name, not now,_ he thought with a spike of panic, _In the names of all gods, not here._

He was trying to get up again, with a more determined jerk this time around, but it was too late. Black intercepted the motion, forcing him back down, his thigh rubbing against Kingsley’s cock with purpose. Obviously, he’d noticed. “Don’t tell me you’re turned on by that, Shacklebolt.” He smirked. “What are you, a poof?” Smirk turning to grimace, he pushed Kingsley away and rose to his feet.

A surge of hot anger flared up within Kingsley. It wasn’t the insult - but it was the condescension. “Yes, that’s exactly what I am,” he said coolly. “And people less stuck-up than you call it _gay_. Why, scared that I’ll jump you?”

For a notable moment, Black didn’t answer, a still shadow amongst the shadows of Grimmauld Place, the light of the candles not reaching his face. But then he relaxed, shaking the tension out of his shoulders as if it was warm-up for sport, and Kingsley believed he saw him smirk through the darkness.

“No.” One fluid motion, and the wizard was right above Kingsley, staring a challenge at him. “It gets you off, that’s fair enough. Suck me.”

And, Merlin knew Kingsley didn’t have the slightest idea why he did it. But he went up onto his knees in front of Black and did him the favor.

* * *

Once he’d be done panicking later, Kingsley would admit to himself how hot it had been.

He was a friend of oral sex, no matter from what point of view. There was an immediate quality to it, intensely intimate, that couldn’t be reproduced in any other way. The world sharpened around him, tightening until it consisted of nothing but the feel of Black’s hand gripping his shoulder hard, the salty taste on his tongue, the cock in his mouth feeling heavier and larger and _more there_ than it could possibly be. When Kingsley looked up, Black’s other hand was holding on to a drawer so hard he was trembling - so he wouldn’t fall - eyes closed, face tight, small jerks of his hips beyond his control. All about it was a turn-on - Kingsley on his knees in this house, the cock of one of the purest purebloods Wizarding England had left in his mouth. He’d spent the almost thirty years he’d lived separating these two parts of his world with a rigor that bordered on compulsion.

 _Nobody_ in the Wizarding world had ever known his secret, but now he was kneeling on the worn rug of 12 Grimmauld Place, and Sirius Black was pushing into his mouth, whimpering helplessly. It was an insane relief. It was an insane... insanity. And, hell, _Black_. _Two years of flight and twelve years of Azkaban,_ he thought irrationally, and the thought shouldn’t arouse him at all, but - oh sod it. Fourteen years without sex - Kingsley would probably have _died_ just from that.

But it was over quite as fast as it had started. Sirius’ hips jerked hard enough for him to loosen his grip on Kingsley’s shoulder; he made a strangled, desperate sound, and he came. Kingsley swallowed without thought, taking his time to let go, feeling as self-satisfied as a Grindylow after a catch. It had to have been the emotion in the room that had made the candles flicker so hard before, because now the light was more steady, illuminating Black’s face. Again, Kingsley was amazed how fast Black’s expression could change, in just a moment’s time, transforming him from England’s most dangerous criminal into a man who’d been a trusted comrade in arms and a best man.

But then, Black blinked, as if suddenly remembering where he was. The dark eyes focusing on Kingsley were unforgiving, vigilant, and extremely sober.

“The _hell_ , Shacklebolt,” he said. “Get off me, fairy.”


	3. Ways To Keep It Interesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Kingsley did not trade his shift that night._

Kingsley did not trade his shift that night. Even when Arthur approached him the next day to inquire if he was still looking to do so, he did not. Within twenty-four hours, he went to stand guard for the Order and worked a double in Headquarters, then went on guard duty again. When arriving at home afterwards, even the best wake-up charms wouldn’t have allowed him to stay on his feet any longer. He crashed to sleep through a day.

But even after the exhaustion and stress had worn off, the events at 12 Grimmauld Place hadn’t magically transformed into just a bad dream. His worst nightmare had become true in passing; instead of filling him with panic, he just felt bad about himself. Considering his usual bad luck, Black wouldn’t just have remembered everything exactly after sleeping off the Firewhiskey, but still meant every word of it.

Amongst Muggles, Kingsley had the luxury of laughing about homophobia. In the Wizarding world, it reminded him too much that he couldn’t be both - gay and magical - without creating a situation just as horrid as the one Remus Lupin was in, if he wasn’t terribly cautious. It wasn’t possible to have both.

However, when the Orders’ next meeting came along, none of his fears came to pass. When he stepped into the kitchen, Black was immersed in a discussion with Moody, not even pausing to look at Kingsley. He wouldn’t meet Kingsley’s gaze even once at the meeting, including the times he absolutely had to address him.

And so days passed and became weeks. There were more work and more stress. Kingsley had no time at all to contemplate what had happened - except he still did it every time he walked into Black. Kingsley would be insane to approach him about Weasley’s magic objects, and Black didn’t appear to plan on doing so himself. Bill had caught on to the wizard’s knowledge of magic devices, anyway, usually approaching him about them directly these days. It was the best solution for everybody, considering Black’s schedule was always empty to a point where he didn’t even need one. They coexisted without any interaction at all.

In late November, however, Tonks started getting impatient, appearing in Kingsley’s fireplace with curious eyes to inquire about the Black file. The subtle modifications of evidence that Kingsley had in mind were asking for more patience than she had in the first place. After the night he’d made such a terrible fool of himself, he’d thrown the file into a bottom drawer and just never looked at it again. Now, he was forced to continue. He just wasn’t ready to explain to Tonks why he hadn’t. Frustrated to his bones, he continued his work and started unobtrusively working Dawlish until the Auror signed a slip for him that confirmed _Priori Incantado_ truly hadn’t been used on Black’s wand in 1981 before it was destroyed. It was just work, Kingsley told himself. It wasn’t personal. He did it because he had to. To accommodate Tonks. It didn’t matter at all whether his objective was called Black or Weasley or Great Helga Hufflepuff.

Though sometimes, he still paused to stare at the photographs surrounding him in his cubicle at work, dozens of incarnations of Black waving at him and waltzing with the bride, holding the Quidditch cup. _All homophobes are closet gays, anyway,_ he’d think nastily, compensating for the embarrassment by imagining Black having bad sex with women all his life. But then he thought, _two years of flight and twelve years of Azkaban_ , and his venom wore off, because the assumption that Black had been looking for anything but quick release while drunk was daring, he knew that. So he would force himself to not look at the photographs, and reach for the report on the breaking of Black’s wand again, making himself think of Black The Death Eater instead of a night that wasn’t permitted to happen to an Auror, ever, anyway.

Then, one day when Kingsley was just on his way to the fireplace after yet another Order’s meeting, Black told him to follow him. He said Lupin was looking for Kingsley, wanting to discuss a mission. They went down the hallway without saying a word. However, when they entered a small forlorn study, couch covered in sheets, no Lupin was in sight. Black closed the door behind them.

Kingsley’s expression turned to stone.

“Listen, Shacklebolt,” Black said, burying his hands in his robe pockets. Automatically, Kingsley took a breath. He couldn’t smell any alcohol. The other man had dark circles under his eyes again, but he seemed like he was keeping it together for a change. “I’m not one to make a mistake and to act like it never happened afterwards. I was drunk, and I... at night... I wasn’t myself. But that’s not an excuse. I shouldn’t have said what I said; it was unforgivable. I hope you can accept if I apologize, deeply and sincerely.”

To say this was surprising would have been an understatement. The apology stumped Kingsley. He’d tried to put the event away as something about which he should have known better, because wizards were wizards, and their sex ed had stopped improving in the middle ages. As a pureblood and a Black, this man in front of him thought gay sexuality to be something dirty and dark. Yet he was standing here, asking him for forgiveness in an old-fashioned way that suspiciously sounded like a pureblood formality.

He cleared his voice. “Alright,” he said stiffly. _Fairy_ , he thought. _Get off me._ Asshole. “I’ll stay away from you, don’t worry. I doubt I’ll ever have to come over again at night. There’s no chance for it to happen again.” He knew that from the Muggles - men who thought themselves to be especially straight, making sure to sit an extra foot apart from you. You paid for other people’s insecurities. He’d take care never to trigger Black’s again; they’d have to work together in the war that was coming.

“What’s your problem, Shacklebolt?” He’d turned to leave, but the words made him pause. “You sound like Remus when we found out he’s a werewolf, and he was twelve. Don’t be so damn defensive. I told you I stand up for mistakes, didn’t I?”

Kingsley froze. “That thing you just called a mistake,” he said deliberately. “is an intrinsical part of my identity.”

Black sighed. “I’m talking of my behavior, you git, not of the thing itself.” Was that the best wording he could come up with? But still. “Now, look at me.” There was an expectation in his voice that the order would be followed, one usually used by superior officers at briefings, and Kingsley had turned around before he could think about it. Black had produced a bottle of Firewhiskey. A flick of his wand transformed an old quill and a paperweight into glasses. “Let’s have a drink.”

“Do you solve all your problems with alcohol?” Kingsley raised his eyebrows.

“No,” Black answered bitterly. “But I try.”

Sitting down next to Black on the sheet-covered couch, Kingsley thought it was an absurd situation. They had to be in the smallest room in the whole house - _in the closet_ , he thought sourly. Sirius Black had indeed taken the spot on the couch furthest away from him, but it looked like he’d made a decision to overrule instinct by brains, holding on to it by force of will. Kingsley wondered if he’d reacted like this as well when he’d been twelve. At twelve, his disdain of werewolves had to have been deep and unquestioned, and it wasn’t an age when you were prone to pause and think.

They drank in awkward silence.

“So,” Black said, clearing his voice. “Gay, is the word?”

He wasn’t looking at Kingsley. Kingsley did him the favor and looked at his glass when nodding, making this a very manly conversation. “There’s _homosexual_ , as well.”

“What, as in _homunculus_?”

 _Mostly as in ‘sex’,_ Kingsley thought. “As in _homunculus_.”

“Alright,” Black said. “So if you... if men, with each other... they’re homosexual?” Being a typical wizard, he chose the long complex word that sounded more like a charm.

Kingsley sighed to himself. He really wasn’t in a mood to calm down Black freaking out about a blowjob, but there was no way around it now. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Some men just try it out, just to go back to women. Or they just do it as long as there aren’t any women present.” _Like in the army,_ he thought. _Or in prison - Black was in prison. Or in Grimmauld Place, where Tonks is his cousin, and the other women are all married._ “There isn’t a textbook where you can look up definitions. It depends on what you’d want to do if you had a choice. I could get married and have a simpler life, but I just don’t want to, I prefer men.” _And one of the reasons I do is because they don’t want to have conversations like this one,_ he thought mockingly. “Other people just want both. It has all been done.”

A moment of silence passed. Since Kingsley had a feeling there still was a deep need for testosterone here, he didn’t look around, just hearing the sound of Black pouring himself another glass. He wasn’t used to drinking, feeling a little lightheaded already. When the bottle appeared in his line of sight, he still offered his glass. Maybe this wasn’t bad, he thought. Maybe he hadn’t compromised his life in the Wizarding world after all, but won a kind of friend. An unusual kind of friend. In an unusual and highly awkward way.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Black studying the content of his glass intently.

“Doesn’t it get ... boring ... after a while, with men?” he eventually asked. “Doing the same all the time?”

At first, Kingsley started, until he realized that Black had to think that the incident in the drawing room had been the thing. “Oh,” he drawled diabolically. “There are ways to keep it interesting.”

Silence.

“Anyway, I’m not gay,” Black eventually said with a lot of focus.

“So I noticed,” Kingsley said dryly. If Black caught on to the sarcasm, he opted to ignore it.

Maybe they truly were back to being friends. And if Black would have a need to bring up the topic again, Kingsley imagined that it could even be a rather amusing friendship.

* * *

They made their goodbyes that night with a date for the next Cursebreaking session. The next morning, Kingsley was glad to have written it down, because he was hazy on everything to come after the last glass. He went through his shift drinking sober-up potions. When the other Aurors noticed, they rolled their eyes knowingly, joking about long nights and women and other things Kingsley hadn’t ever wanted to picture.

In the Order, the mood was growing tenser with every report to arrive from Hogwarts. At the same time, life quieted down at Aurors’ Headquarters. Many of the Aurors, including Scrimgeour himself, had listened up when Albus Dumbledore told them his version of the Triwizard Tournament and poor Cedric Diggory’s death - if an Auror could listen to a claim that You-Know-Who was back but dismiss it out of hand, they’d chosen the wrong profession. However, nothing had happened at all ever since, and people were relaxing. It was a strain to stand by without warning them. Even Kingsley had no choice but to logically conclude in his file that all known Dark activity had been caused by Black roaming the streets. Maybe some of the few incidents really had happened because former Death Eaters felt inspired by the antics of Voldemort’s supposed right hand man.

In early December, Kingsley and Tonks still managed to make some progress in their work that Kingsley was quite proud of. Old Corey Carson - who’d spent five years in Azkaban after the war, returning with a cackle - had renewed his Dark Mark, brandishing it while running through a street in Brighton and throwing _Cruciatus_ at random Muggles. Of course, he turned out to be so gaga when they caught him that he truly didn’t remember whether it had been his idea or somebody else’s. While the colleagues collectively pointed at Sirius Black, Kingsley managed to organize a ‘sighting’ of Black at the Chilean border. Tonks had to pass thirteen Apparation points to get there, sleeping through a day afterwards to recover.

It didn’t exactly earn him a promotion. Kingsley tried to explain to Scrimgeour, in depth, why they couldn’t do anything as long as Black stayed there. Wizarding Chile would not be amused if a European Auror showed up to chase their tourists. Scrimgeour eventually had to give in grumpily, but remained suspicious. Kingsley hadn’t ever been one to be stopped by procedural problems. When Scrimgeour had finally limped out of his cubicle, Kingsley had been sweating from fear.

So he was happy to take some days off mid December. Naturally, this was exactly when his Auror team caught him on guard duty.

* * *

Grimacing from pain, Kingsley stumbled out of the fireplace, crashing against the kitchen table.

“ _Black!_ ” he barked. “ _Lupin!_ ”

Mrs. Black started screaming in the hallway as an answer. Kingsley shut his eyes, trying to breathe deeply, holding himself up at the table with one hand while the other felt for the wound on his thigh. Everything was wet with blood - the artery had been nicked, and he couldn’t find the right point to apply pressure. He hadn’t been able to perform a Quick Healing charm, because it would have left traces for colleagues to spot. Kingsley had made a split second decision, taking the risk to black out before he could reach help at Grimmauld Place. It wasn’t complex witchcraft. He just needed somebody who could look at the injury and who wasn’t so... dizzy...

“Merlin’s name, Kingsley!” a rough voice said, an arm wrapping around his waist, holding him up. The tip of a wand made him light enough to hover, and he was levitated away. His vision blurred. When it cleared up, he just caught the last syllable of a wake-up charm.

He was bleeding onto the couch in the drawing room. Mrs. Black’s screeching had stopped. Somewhere below his belt line, Sirius was at work with narrow eyes.

“Hello Kingsley,” he said. “Consider yourself lucky that I used to do this once a month. How’s your vision? How many fingers?” He nodded when he liked the answer. “I used _Salutaro_ , so you better wait before sitting up or you’ll get dizzy. Can you move your leg? I can’t reach it for the bandage.”

Belatedly, Kingsley grew aware that he wasn’t wearing his robes anymore; the leg of his trousers had been cut off at the seam. He started feeling dizzy again when he looked at the injury. Black had closed the cut with a stitching charm - first aid magic, a style that had gone out of fashion at the time they’d started calling Alastor Mad-Eye. But there was still blood drying all over, dark red clots dripping down his thigh when Black helped him angle the leg.

“Good,” the wizard said. “ _Ferula._ ” A bandage shot out of his wand and wrapped itself around the injured area. “ _Accio_ Pepper-up potion.” Sirius was wearing one of those ugly grey cotton nightgowns that purebloods insisted on sleeping in. He leaned against the leg of the couch while waiting for the healing potion to arrive from where ever it was stored. “What happened?”

“Invisibility cloak stopped working,” Kingsley said, his tongue heavy. He felt as weak as a baby. “The new one Weasley brought in. I had time to speak Moody’s chameleon charm, so they didn’t recognize me. I think they thought I’m you. But I didn’t have much time. Proudfoot fired a _Stupor_ at me. I could counter that one in time. But Robards knows that nasty chopping curse. I barely escaped.”

“ _Scindero._ ” Sirius nodded. “I remember.” The Pepper-up potion had arrived; Sirius caught it with ease. “You gave me quite the scare, showing up in the kitchen like that. First I thought Remus was back - he’s with the wolves again tonight. You should have seen yourself. Blood everywhere. You looked like shit.”

“How flattering.”

But Kingsley was grateful when Sirius put an arm around him, helping him to sit up carefully, without jerking. Magic was great for injuries, but he still had lost a lot of blood. And, hell, he was grateful that he had a couple of free days coming up at the Aurors. This kind of injury might even be enough for Snape to get off his potion brewing ass and substitute for him.

He tried to sit upright on his own doing, but Sirius was muttering something soothing under his breath, shifting his weight so that Kingsley could lean against his shoulder. The potion tasted bitter and sweet at once. He felt it starting to work the moment he’d swallowed, tickling his stomach warmly. Kingsley hated being weak and helpless. Though, there was something to be said about the Order’s comradry, too, he thought lazily. It felt nice to be supported by somebody who cared.

He liked the smell of cotton and magic and leather that clung to Black tonight, no trace of alcohol at all. He smelled a nice kind of clean.

Considering the rasping sound when their cheeks touched, they both needed to shave.

“So are gays allowed to kiss?” Sirius asked.

Kingsley gave him a disbelieving look. Instead of answering, he turned his head until their lips met.


	4. Russian Roulette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You don’t have to,” Kingsley managed._
> 
>  _“Yes,” Sirius said, jerking the belt open. “I do.”_

Black’s tongue felt hot and demanding, no different from more experienced men except better. Their cheeks were scratching against each other. They bumped noses, and there were too many elbows. Kingsley wouldn’t have been able to let go of the other man if his life had depended on it.

Sirius was above him, avoiding the injury on Kingsley's leg by instinct. He was kissing Kingsley like a starving man while his hands worked their way under Kingsley’s shirt, down his stomach. Purposeful touches and motions like rehearsed in dreams for days, fingers finding his belt.

“You don’t have to,” Kingsley managed.

“Yes,” Sirius said, jerking the belt open. “I do.”

It would never have occurred to Kingsley to disagree. He was too busy fingering the buttons of that ugly Wizarding nightgown, the opposite of anything he’d ever invited into his bedroom before. Then there was skin - and more skin - and robes became as unimportant as the wound, throbbing dully in the background.

Warm fingers, demanding touches, kissing. Strong male hands between their legs, and Kingsley gave up control to a wizard who was in his element only when charging. Feeling pointy ribs under his fingers and that scrawny frame, he tried to find out what this particular man would like, who either didn’t know himself or had forgotten in Azkaban. It was awkward and laborious, but Sirius shuddered at the weirdest moments, taking hitched breaths. Kingsley soon lost the ability to talk, followed by his sense of time, but the whole thing probably didn’t take long. It was too urgent for that; it was all he’d wanted since that night. He felt like he came only moments after that needy, calloused hand had wrapped around his cock.

Afterwards, Sirius conjured a sponge, taking care of the blood stains on the couch and, well, the other stains. Leaning onto the other wizard’s shoulder, Kingsley limped to Sirius’ bedroom. It was a strange place: a guestroom still looking like a guestroom. They wasted few words, going to bed, in which there was a lot more space than on the couch - if necessary, Kingsley thought with giddy foresight, even for an orgy.

“So you’re alright with it? The... ‘gay thing’?” he asked, half curious and half defensive, carefully trying for a comfortable position, yet still sinking down onto the mattress with a groan.

“I couldn’t care less,” Sirius said recklessly. “They can all sod off and bugger it.”

Somehow, this didn’t serve to calm Kingsley’s nerves, because he knew Sirius Black well enough by now to know that every statement could always serve the purpose of preventing another one from being made. Reckless didn’t sound like the answer he’d been hoping for. Reckless sounded as if Sirius had just reached a point where nothing mattered anymore at all.

Yet Sirius was kissing him again, and the tingling in Kingsley's stomach won out.  


* * *

Lupin returned from his mission at dawn. They heard him in time to slip into their robes, draping a blanket and pillow on the drawing room couch before the tired werewolf made his way up the stairs. The story was told in few words. Department of Mysteries, guard shift gone awry, Robards’ favorite chopping curse. Kingsley had slept on the couch, borrowing a robe of Black’s, and now he really had to go report to Dumbledore. Lupin was all empathy and concern, promising to make sure Arthur would take Kingsley’s next shift. When Kingsley left Grimmauld Place, his heart was still beating wildly in his chest.

For the rest of the day, he hid out in his apartment, trying not to move his leg while working through overdue paperwork. Except he’d pause all the time to think back to last night with a mixture of disbelief and giddiness and deep satisfaction.

Kingsley was refusing to question what had happened. He was in a splendid mood. When Dumbledore’s face showed up in his fireplace colored by concern, followed by Tonks barging through his door in alarm, he was able to calm them down easily, telling them that Sirius had provided him with excellent care. In the evening, he allowed the potions to wear off. The cut was healing with magical speed, and he could move his leg without any stiffness. All in all, it was a good day.

However, that was before Tonk’s owl poked him awake in the middle of the night. A giant snake had attacked Arthur Weasley while he was substituting for Kingsley; he’d probably die, the prophecy wasn’t safe. The war had possibly begun.  


* * *

Chaos reigned in the following days. Kingsley had no opportunity to visit Grimmauld Place at all. While the healers in St. Mungo’s first fought for Arthur Weasley’s life and then for his motor skills, Professor Dumbledore doubled the Ministry guards. Tense and worried, they patrolled the Department of Mysteries night after night, hiding from the Aurors. Some nights, Kingsley was one of the Aurors, looking for intruders. For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder if Dumbledore’s strategy truly made sense. The attack on Arthur had shown that the patrols endangered their lives without being all that useful: One guard wasn't enough to stop an attack, and the enemy even knew what to expect now. Kingsley wasn’t sure if Dumbledore just didn’t understand that he was asking them to sacrifice themselves. But he couldn’t help remember Sirius’ proposal of stealing and destroying the prophecy themselves. _You don’t win a match by guarding the goals._ Their plan wasn’t about winning. It was all about not losing.

Few days short of Christmas, he finally found an excuse to visit Grimmauld Place. However, instead of the empty silent house he’d been expecting, Kingsley found himself greeted by seven energetic redheads and various teens. He found Sirius in the kitchen, carrying on an animated conversation with Bill. He looked _good_. His eyes were alive, there was color in his face. The topic, apparently, was Quidditch.

“Kingsley,” he exclaimed blithely when he saw him. “So good you’re here. I’ve looked up those charms you were interested in. Come on.” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Kingsley’s shoulder, pulling him out of the kitchen. A minute later, they found themselves in Sirius’ room.

“Have you lost your mind, Black?” Kingsley couldn’t decide if he should laugh or cry. “Looked up charms? Do you honestly think that one would fool someone like Moody?”

“Alastor isn’t in today,” Sirius said with a shrug, pushing him back against a wall. “Harry and the children and the Weasleys are here. Molly will only see what she wants to see, and Harry and Hermione do as Muggles do.” He interrupted Kingsley’s protest with a kiss. Kingsley was quickly discovering that Sirius was quite the oral person - and he really liked the implications of that.

“Muggle-born or not,” he managed when they came up for air, “they’re children. They’ll tell their friends and those will tell their parents. We’ll be carted off to St. Mungo’s faster than we can blink. That is, I’d go to St. Mungo’s and you’d go back to Az...”

But he was distracted by a hand under his robes, and the conversation was over. It was about time he showed Black how to give up control.  


* * *

Kingsley would have continued the conversation later, but they had just enough time to get dressed before Molly showed up in the hallway, asking where to find the tablecloth cupboard. Sirius, who’d never had reason to know the location of such a cupboard, still offered to help her search for it. Once they returned, Professor McGonagall had struck up a discussion of an article in _Transfiguration Today_ with Kingsley. The briefing started shortly afterwards.

Throughout the following days, Headquarters threatened to burst from its visitors and all the activity; whenever Kingsley came over, he found Sirius in the company of his godson. Kingsley himself had made plans to visit his family in Leeds for Christmas. Since he was unmarried and childless, he had to work extras in Headquarters anyway. Only after the fact did he learn that all inhabitants of Number Twelve had gone to visit Arthur on the 25th. It annoyed him to think that Sirius had been alone in Grimmauld Place all Christmas day when they could have spent it together.

Christmas proved to be a peaceful affair. His mother spent dinner happily chattering about her bridge club; his father struck up conversations about work, challenging him to a game of Wizarding chess, criticizing Bones’ leadership abilities left and right. Then he addressed the lack of ambition he’d decided to detect in Kingsley. And asked several questions about why Kingsley never brought his girlfriends home, because “your mother would be glad to meet them.” His mother, on the other hand, took him aside with a twinkle in her eyes, questioning him about the man who made him glow like that. However, even she had read reports about Sirius Black in the Muggle papers. Kingsley made up a story sheepishly.

As always, there was a lot to do at Aurors’ Headquarters before New Year’s. The usual suspects had foretold the usual apocalypse, making the usual believers panic. But midnight came and passed, and England survived. Meanwhile, Auror Reeds discovered a logical error in the Black file, acquainting Kingsley with formerly unknown anxiety levels. So Kingsley made time for the Black file, inspecting it from start to finish before making a copy and Apparating over to Alastor Moody. Despite his age and nickname, Mad-Eye was still as sharp as a hawk, and bored to tears in retirement. Kingsley needed the help of a paranoid mastermind.

Moody insisted on about a dozen ways of making sure that Kingsley really was Kingsley. Then, he asked at least hundred different questions about his and Tonks’ plan. But after an hour of patient explanations, Kingsley could see how the old Auror’s eye was starting to shine. If you survived two wars and three goblin rebellions, there weren’t many challenges left. Kingsley left him the copy of the file, and Moody started outlining plans.

The house full of people, Kingsley only ever had short opportunities to sneak off with Sirius. They’d barely make it to the nearest closet before someone would start missing them. Sirius seemed to think that it was worth a little risk; Kingsley insisted that they should never be alone together in a room with a bed, so nobody would ever have a chance to draw the wrong - the right - conclusions. He soon became nervous when their conversations ventured into private territory in public, or if he suspected that Sirius spiced his greetings with double entendres. When the Order came together in the kitchen, he sat down far away from Sirius, avoiding casual touch.

Hermione Granger, of all people, scared him for life when she brought up Sirius and him in the same breath.

“Harry told me that you and Sirius are friends,” she remarked between two spoonfuls of rhubarb crumble when Kingsley was searching the kitchen for his notebook. “I was surprised. I haven’t ever seen the two of you together.”

“How come Harry even knows that I’m a friend of Sirius’?” Kingsley answered, frozen in motion.

Hermione shrugged, not even bothering to look up from her dessert. “Sirius told him.” She smiled shyly. “I think he needs to have more contact with other people. Surely it’s good for him to be friends with an Auror.”

Kingsley wasn’t that happy that Sirius had told Potter stories involving Kingsley, but there was hardly anything he could say against it. After all, Tonks had also been enthused to discover that he’d started getting along with her favorite cousin, when formerly he’d banged his head against something hard every time Sirius opened his mouth. On the other hand, Kingsley had automatically raised Moody’s suspicions just because he was taking an interest in somebody else’s problem. He’d taken the risk of approaching the old Auror because he had to - something Sirius would approve of, no doubt. But that meant they had to be double careful, no matter Sirius didn’t know anything about Kingsley’s work on the file. Rose-colored glasses or not, Kingsley didn’t think it would be wise to tell him. He’d probably want to get involved.

Meanwhile, Granger was a dangerously good observer. She made Kingsley worry, not only about being caught. So he struck up a conversation with Molly. Subtly pushing her towards the intel he needed, he learned that Sirius had charmed the Order with his bright mood at the beginning of the holidays, but it had subsided step by step. He was back to spending hours with that Hippogriff. He wasn’t pulling himself together enough. Thank Merlin that he didn’t drink in front of the children, but Molly very well knew to recognize a hangover when she saw one.

Thus pointed in the right direction, Kingsley could see the signs himself - the dark circles under Sirius’ eyes, the dullness, the cynicism, all the symptoms of depression that he’d learned to read by now. It was impossible to stay away from Sirius if that was what it did to him. Kingsley only lasted two more days. The next time Sirius waited for a small Order’s briefing to dissolve before telegraphing Kingsley a question, Kingsley just nodded, following him into a study.

It was late at night, and the children were in bed, hopefully even the twins. Molly and Arthur had headed for their rooms right away; Lupin had retired to the library. Another four days, and the kids would return to school. The Weasleys would go home.

As happened a lot, Sirius’ mood had changed from frustrated indifference to spontaneous verve the moment the door had closed. Leaning his forehead against Kingsley’s chest twenty frantic minutes later, fighting to catch his breath, he started chuckling. “Did you see Snape’s face when I asked you to help me with the healing potion? What, did he flunk you in that year he taught you?”

“He gave me an E,” Kingsley said grandly. “I _am_ an Auror now, you know. Though, he kept preaching that my Pepper-up potions would make somebody’s brain explode one day. I’d always hoped it would be his.”

Sirius was still chuckling quietly against his chest, but suddenly the sound seemed desperate, and the mood broke. Kingsley remembered that they weren’t alone in this building, and that every noise carried through all hallways at night. They couldn’t use Silencing charms since most rooms in the building repelled them. Carefully he reached for Sirius’ shoulder, pushing so that he could look at him.

“Listen, Sirius. If we really want to do this, we have to keep it quieter - you have to be more careful. We have to make up excuses alright, but at least use one that won’t rile Snape. He wasn’t a Death Eater for nothing, and he hates you. If he’ll as much as catch a hint of what’s going on, he’ll have proof the next day, and the rest of the Order will learn about it in all detail.” He gave Sirius an insistent look. “Just look at how they’re treating Lupin for being a werewolf. You don’t want that for yourself. They would throw us out of the Order. The Aurors would throw me out. They don’t mean us ill, but they don’t _understand_ it, they think it’s abnormal and a perversion. A kind of Dark Art. We can’t afford taking that risk. _You_ can’t afford taking it.” This was the _only place_ that had been ready to take Sirius in. It was this or hiding in caves. The thought made Kingsley shudder.

But Sirius didn’t seem to have followed that trail of thought. There was a pause when he gave Kingsley a calculating look. The smile had vanished from his face, and he let go of Kingsley. “You know,” he said. “There’s a part of me that doesn’t care. Why should it matter what they think about us? They’ve always had too easy a time picturing me as a Death Eater.” Frowning, he moved to lean against the desk. “You make it sound like there’s something worth saving here. How much worse do you think it can get?”

Kingsley found himself getting mad despite himself. “So it’s all about you, isn’t it?” he said. “What about my life? My reputation? I’m done as an Auror if I’m caught sleeping with a wizard. There’s no place for a poof under Scrimgeour’s command.”

Sirius snorted. “So you want them to respect you for something that isn’t actually true? That makes your whole life just a lie.”

“It’s the only life I've got!” Kingsley had a hard time keeping his voice down; he was threatening to get considerably louder. “What is this for you, some kind of game? Some kind of Russian roulette, let’s find out how long it takes for them to notice? You’re so fucked up, Black. Don’t you think I don’t know that you’re just burning for the war to break loose? You’re just waiting to risk your neck in the first battle. And as long as you have to wait for that, you’ll spend your time risking to be caught with me, won’t you?”

Kingsley was breathing hard. The words had just come out of his mouth. He’d been keeping their secret for both of them during the last weeks, because Sirius didn’t have a sense of caution or even necessity. Kingsley saw that the other man was suffering from nightmares, spending whole nights awake, but when he asked him about it, Sirius played it down or lied about it flat out. He had looked on while Sirius had drunk himself into a stupor repeatedly within the last couple of days, and if he wasn’t busy worrying about alcoholism, he prayed that Sirius wouldn’t compromise himself while pissed, telling Lupin about Kingsley. And between all that... That thought made his breath hitch, it made him so angry. Between all that, he still didn’t know if Sirius really wanted him. For all Kingsley knew, he’d taken the first best thing that was at disposal, ready to go back to those women he was showing off in every other picture on Kingsley’s desk as soon as he could.

But Sirius had paled. People in the Order liked misjudging him - he didn’t lose control and shout at people when he was angry, but he became quiet, tightly holding on to his poise. Now, he got up from his spot at the desk with a jerk. Eyes trained on Kingsley, his wand hand wasn’t in his pocket, but dangerously close to it - the subconscious posture of an Auror who hadn’t just seen war, but who had lived it. It looked strangely forlorn on his haggard frame.

“I would never do that to Harry, Shacklebolt, or to you,” he said shakily. “I would never... ever again... endanger somebody else like that just because I think it’s worth it. I won’t risk anybody’s life but my own.”

“But I’m still just a useful tool to you, aren’t I?” Kingsley shot back furiously. “You wouldn’t ever _think_ to do a bloke if you weren’t stuck here. If you weren’t so bored.”

“What?” Sirius blinked. The accusation seemed to come out of nowhere for him. Then he growled - “You immense twit, Shacklebolt” - taking a step forward, grabbing Kingsley’s shoulder and shoving him against the wall to look at him with frightening intensity - as if the world had narrowed down to consist solely of Kingsley. “I’m with you, you git,” he said slowly and emphatically, “because I like you, am in love with you, no matter who else is on offer.”

“Love?” Kingsley said weakly. His anger was suddenly dissipating, running out of him like water. It had only been three weeks. There had been no talk of love as of yet.

Sirius rolled his eyes at him. “Just don’t expect me to repeat it all the time, alright?”

“Alright...” Kingsley slowly shook his head to clear it. “I’ll just replay this one for a while.”

Still, a part of him was worried. Worried that he’d given in too fast, that there was more to his accusations than Sirius was ready to admit. He remembered thinking that Sirius had reached a point where he didn’t care what happened to him. The idea that a wizard could overcome his prejudice to be gay was unheard of. A gay wizard who didn’t even care if he was found out was... well, Kingsley had trouble allowing for the concept in his mind.

Outside of the Order, Sirius was thought to be a traitor and a spy. Inside of it, people were still trying to tell themselves that it had been his rashness and flippancy - his own fault - to land him in Azkaban. Because if they stopped doing that, they’d have to admit that the world wasn’t fair, and that it could happen to them, just as well. Tonks, braver than them all, had decided to help Sirius because she had understood all that by instinct. But as far as Sirius was aware, there was no chance for him to ever be free again. He had no idea that a young Auror who was just as rash and idealistic as he was had started fighting for his rights months ago. Tonks had known right away what it was all about.

Kingsley still wasn’t ready to tell Sirius about it, not when Sirius wasn’t in a state to handle such a sensitive ploy. But still, why would a person such as Sirius care whether people would start hating him for yet another thing, one that happened to be true this time only by chance? Either way, he was as good as dead and forgotten. For one awful moment, Kingsley managed to take Sirius’ point of view: his life in Grimmauld Place, haunted by Dementors and ghosts. Maybe Sirius himself felt like a ghost at this point, desperately trying to get somebody, anybody to look at him and see a person.

The last remains of his anger finally gone, Kingsley reached for his lover to kiss him.

Screw Grimmauld Place 12 and its bleeding inhabitants just for a minute.

Feeling a hand on his crotch, he couldn’t help but exclaim a small approving groan.

Kingsley closed his eyes, holding on to Sirius, all of him focused on what he was being done to him and how great it was feeling for once.

Only after the fact did he noticed the squeak of the door. His eyes flew open; Sirius had stumbled away from him, his body heat suddenly gone. A cold shudder was running down Kingsley’s spine even before he had fully taken in the situation.

Remus Lupin was standing in the doorway, looking at them like he couldn’t believe his eyes.


	5. The Stuff Of Legends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Kingsley hadn’t been sure how to deal with Lupin the next time he met him._

Kingsley had his chance to talk to Lupin four days later. He barely saw Sirius in that time. Accommodating the plea - and open terror - in Sirius’ eyes, he had left without another word that night, thinking it wise to stay away from Grimmauld Place the next day. The day following that, he worked a double at Aurors’ Headquarters, crawling into bed in exhaustion afterwards. When finally Apparating to Grimmauld Place in the morning, he arrived just after some sort of fight between Sirius and Snape. Sirius had time to tell him tersely that he was taking care of Lupin before they were interrupted by Tonks. She was scheduled to accompany the children back to school.

So yet another day later, Kingsley decided to man up, appearing in Grimmauld Place without a reason for a change. To hell with caution if the Weasleys had left anyway. The children were gone. They had blown their cover to the only person to stay.

While Kingsley had hoped to meet Sirius alone, he was nowhere to be seen when he entered the building, using the key they'd all been given at this point. In the kitchen, he ran into Lupin, who was making tea. The evening edition of the _Daily Prophet_ was spread out on the table, and the wizard was wearing indoor robes.

Kingsley hadn’t been sure how to deal with Lupin the next time he met him; as it was, he’d been hoping to acquire that very piece of information from Sirius. The first shock had soon transformed into nagging anxiety, forcing him to picture every worst case scenario his cultivated Aurors’ paranoia enabled him to come up with. But after some hours had passed, the head of a shocked (or worse, disappointed) Albus Dumbledore still hadn’t shown up in his fireplace. He had started assuming that Sirius had managed to get his friend under control. After all - the information was looked up quickly in the Black file - Remus Lupin wasn’t just a werewolf. He was also a Half-blood, although that didn’t always have a meaning.

When Lupin saw him standing in the doorway, his expression became carefully blank. After a moment, one of his distant smiles crept onto his face. He nodded at the table. “Kingsley. Please sit down.”

With the caution of an Auror on the prowl, Kingsley slid into the room, sitting down on the chair farthest away from the other man. Tense from adrenaline, he watched Lupin, who was back to tending to his tea.

When he finally turned around to Kingsley, he followed his eyes to the door. “Nobody is here except us,” he answered the unspoken question. “Sirius has gone to bed - he has a cold.” Without asking, he placed not one, but two cups on the table, pushing one of them towards Kingsley. “I offered him to borrow an owl so he could write you a letter, but Sirius has never been what I would call a scribe. Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk, please.” Kingsley cleared his voice. Somehow, he felt reminded of the day he’d picked a frozen soccer ball out of the air, waiting for his parents to explain if it meant he’d lost his playmates. “So it’s all... alright for you?” What he truly meant was, would Lupin swear on his mother’s blood to never tell anybody anything of what he’d seen? But if Lupin was aware of the actual question, it didn’t show. Just like in the early days of the Black investigation, he was a closed book through and through.

The wizard let go of the tea pot, turning to lean against the sink in thought. “At first, I was... surprised. And confused. And disappointed,” he said slowly. “And in a way, I still am those things. But...” He smiled bitterly. “I’m hardly in a position to judge other people for something I don’t understand. I’ve been shown too often how wrong some of the assumptions made by wizards can turn out to be. And I’m glad if Sirius is happy, if this is what he wants. He has enough to deal with already.”

“He does have a talent to find himself in situations that end badly for him, doesn’t he?” Kingsley asked, trying to relax and failing.

Lupin chuckled. “He does at that. He’s always in the one place he shouldn’t be, doing exactly what everybody was trying to prevent him from doing.” His expression turned serious again. “I have to be honest, Kingsley. I thought that’s what he was doing - looking for distraction, some sort of new adventure. But you should have heard him defending your honor. I haven’t seen him like that since before Azkaban - since James died.”

“Flattering,” Kingsley managed for lack of a better response. It truly was flattering though. Nobody had ever thought to defend his _honor_. He wondered what that even meant - what Sirius had believed Lupin was thinking of them, and what he had said.

On top of that, Lupin was unknowingly providing a different kind of reassurance. When the other man had first mirrored Kingsley’s own worries, a lump had started forming in his throat. But Lupin had known Sirius for twenty-four years, and if Sirius had been able to convince him this quickly, that was - well - a very good sign. He thought of Sirius’ unexpected profession of love, noticing that he hadn’t had a chance to reciprocate.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he waited while Lupin took the teapot, filling both their cups. Lupin didn’t exactly look like he was just back from a vacation, either - he’d always seemed sickly and pale, especially since Dumbledore had started sending him out to look for the werewolves. Contrary to Sirius, however, he was giving off a sense of inner balance, as if he’d made his peace with the world a long time ago. Lupin was as cool and collected as Sirius was erratic.

“You were disappointed,” Kingsley prompted him eventually.

Lupin nodded. “Yes,” he admitted. “I was hurt, because he hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me about this - neither about the two of you, nor ever before. However, knowing Sirius, he probably only found out about this... this preference of his... when he was at it already.” The double entendre seemed to occur to him after the fact. With no small amount of amusement, Kingsley witnessed him blush ever so faintly. “Anyway,” Lupin continued, “looking back, it’s not a stretch to think that Sirius would be a homosexual. He had never had a lot of patience with women - and, yes, there was a war going on, but that had never stopped James or me. And when we were fifteen, looking back... well, it doesn’t matter. Now matters.”

Kingsley had perked up with interest though. The knot in his chest was starting to loosen. He latched onto the memory of all those letters he had collected for his investigation. Lupin was right - Sirius wasn’t what you’d call a scribe - but amongst those messy notes he’d written during holidays, the nervous concern for ‘Moony’ on full moons had stuck out. It had confused Kingsley back then, unaware that he was witnessing the actions of a passionate, determined idealist and hater of the Dark Arts. He decided to needle Sirius a little about his Hogwarts crushes some time.

“Sirius isn’t used to confiding in other people. He feels most confident when he can take care of somebody,” he said deliberately. A sense of warmth and happiness was starting to spread through him. “Just look at how much good it did for him to take responsibility for Potter. Wasn’t that what that fight with Snape was about, as well? Who gets to decide who will act as Occlumancy teacher?”

“Yes. Sirius has never been good at following Professor Dumbledore’s lead.”

Kingsley shrugged. “If it had been Ron instead of Harry, Dumbledore wouldn’t have made the decision without Molly and Arthur’s consent, either. Dumbledore is incapacitating Sirius, Lupin. Sirius is trying to be a man with a life again, and you are treating him like a child.”

Lupin tensed. “We don’t have time for the luxury of behaving the way we want to in a time like this,” he said. “I would be happy to let him do whatever he wants to do, as long as he remains safe. However, Kingsley - if Sirius makes a mistake, it won’t mean people will frown upon it. It means he’ll be captured by Aurors or Death Eaters and _die_. He needs to start calming down for his own good.”

Opening his mouth to disagree, Kingsley hesitated. It amazed him that two men as different as Lupin and Sirius could be such close friends. Yes, he himself had been in need of trial and error to understand the stakes. But was it possible that he had already learned to understand Sirius better than the person to have shared his dormitory in Hogwarts?

He couldn’t help but wonder what else had been lost when James Potter died.

“When Sirius calms down, it means he’s _unhappy_ , Lupin,” he said emphatically. _Unhappier than usual._ “If you want to do what’s best for him, try to take his point of view. Sirius doesn’t care about safety - he wants to be free. He’d be as safe as he is here in Azkaban as well, but there, at least, they were calling him a criminal when treating him like one. No,” he said when Lupin opened his mouth, “Sirius allows you to treat him like this because he doesn’t have a choice - because you are the only people in the world who believe that he’s innocent. Where else should he go if he wants to protect Harry? But if he was a free man, do you honestly think that he’d allow Professor Dumbledore to make decisions about Harry’s life, when that’s something he has sworn to make his responsibility? Or that he’d stay behind at home, to help clean the house, while other people are out there risking their lives? Do you really think you’d have a way to stop him?

“Once the war really breaks out,” he added, “that’ll stop working.” The psychological profile he’d created two years ago came to mind. Most of it had turned out to be gibberish. Some of it hadn’t. _“We’ll have to set a trap, Rufus. There’s something he wants. He didn’t break out of Azkaban to hide forever. Make him think it’s necessary to come and get it. He’ll show up.”_ “Right now he’s believing you that he can’t help the cause. But just wait until someone he loves is in danger, and he’ll be out there fighting anybody who dares attack him.”

That, Kingsley realized quite suddenly, was exactly what Tonks had tried to explain to him three months ago. Professor Dumbledore had put off the task of clearing Sirius’ name because maybe he’d spent so many decades sitting at a desk that he had started believing other people would be happy to do it as well. The problem was that they didn’t have time. Once war broke out again, they would have even fewer resources - and more importantly, Sirius would stop waiting for them. He was making a leap of faith - trusting in people who’d owed him ever since 1981 - and he was waiting and praying, but Sirius was exactly the kind of person to decide, one day, abruptly, that time had run out. They were expecting Sirius to be patient. Sirius was expecting them to be loyal. He was giving them his patience as well as he could, but he wasn’t finding any signs that he was getting something in return.

And the sad thing was, this wasn’t even about succeeding. Sirius probably didn’t even think it important that they found Pettigrew or managed to prove his innocence. But they needed to have _tried_ and to have shown him that he’d been worth the trouble. Sirius himself, who had become an Animagus for Lupin, escaping from Azkaban for Harry, would never let a friend down like that. He’d never forget one, or in case of Dumbledore, even, get rid of one. That wasn’t what Dumbledore was trying to do, but it certainly was what it looked like to Sirius.

“You’re probably right,” Lupin said tightly after a moment. “But what good would all that do if it would mean that he’d die? You can’t expect us to allow him to take risks that could kill him, as long as we have a way to stop him.”

Risks - everything was always about risks with Sirius. He calculated them - some days more carefully than others - taking them without the slightest bit of hesitation, not because he didn’t understand the consequences, but because he had decided they were worth it. In the case of Alastor Moody, that was the stuff of legends. In the case of Sirius Black, it was used to tie him to a role that he despised.

The last war certainly hadn’t been won by guarding the goals.

Kingsley wondered who’d been the people to take the risks in the first Order - Alastor before he was too paranoid to be brilliant? Sirius himself, backed up by James Potter? They didn’t have people like that anymore. They only had people who were glad to obey Dumbledore’s decisions about Sirius’ fate, because it meant they wouldn’t have to think about their fears. They did what Fudge was doing when he wouldn’t believe that Voldemort was back, except the other way around. They were literally lacking in Gryffindors in the Order - comrades who would throw themselves at their colleague’s exculpation just because.

And Kingsley was getting a dark feeling that helping Sirius was ceasing to be a matter of risk, rapidly transforming into a matter of necessity.   


* * *

Sirius had indeed already gone to bed. With a grin of evil delight, Kingsley looked at him and his red nose, deciding that he looked _cute_ \- a state that could be used to tease him for years and years to come. He seemed to be sleeping soundly for a change. On the nightstand, a candle was burning down, wax dripping onto the latest edition of _Transfiguration Today_. An empty bottle of Poppy Pomfrey's flu potion was standing next to it.

With the childish glee of a man who didn't get to do domestic situations a lot, Kingsley had a look at the article Sirius had been reading - _Alternative Approaches To The Animagus Transformation_ \- closing the magazine and tucking Sirius in properly, just because he could.

Sirius moved lazily, blinking his eyes open. When Kingsley was positive he wouldn't be jumped – not that he'd have a problem with that this time around – he moved to kneel next to the bed, smirking at him.

“You do look like death warmed over,” he said, pushing hair out of his lover's face. “Feeling very bad?”

“It's just a cold,” Sirius said sleepily. “I'll be healed tomorrow.” He blinked. “Are you coming to bed?”

The great thing was that this was actually possible. Christmas was over. There was only one other man in the building, who wasn't in a position to judge other people, wanting his best friend to be happy – as long as he didn't leave the house, anyway. Kingsley's next shift at Aurors’ Headquarters would only start in the next afternoon. So he didn't lose time. Undressing and sliding into bed next to Sirius, he felt the other man falling asleep again. Spooning up behind him, Kingsley followed suit, snuggling and soon launching into a dream of playing Quidditch in Hogwarts…

The shrill alarm made them both bolt up, wide awake. No more than five minutes could have passed.

“What the…” Sirius’ right hand was under his pillow – undoubtedly the place he'd used to keep his wand in the war.

“Aurors’ Alert,” Kingsley stated the obvious, climbing out of bed. A couple of seconds later he’d caught his watch, jumping up and down wildly in one of the pockets of his robes. It was pointing at _Emergency Shift._ “I have to go.”

Sirius’ face looked hard in the candlelight when he sat up fully, handing him his wand when Kingsley had dressed. He didn't ask questions, didn't waste his time – he'd owned a watch like that himself. "Break a leg," he said, and Kingsley nodded him a thank you, half out of the room already.

Seven minutes later, he’d Apparated into Headquarters, learning that the Dementors had left Azkaban. Ten prisoners were missing, amongst them Antonin Dolohov and the Lestranges.

The next time Kingsley went to 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius wasn’t there.


	6. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All of today’s Daily Prophet had been full of Sirius Black, the Dark Lord’s crazy second-in-command._

Kingsley couldn’t have said why he Apparated straight back to Grimmauld Place. He had been on Azkaban all night with his team, illuminating the island with harsh magic light, chasing the prisoners back into their cells. Once, he had thought he’d caught a glimpse of Sturgis Podmore, pale sunken face amongst the walking dead. At dawn, he had proceeded to take charge of Headquarters, followed by a rotation in Scrimgeour’s team scouring all of England for the escapees.

Four raids and two wake-up potions later, Kingsley was arriving at the kitchen of Grimmauld Place 12 feeling wide awake. He’d have to be on duty in the afternoon again, and he really should go home to sleep, but he couldn’t help himself. All of today’s _Daily Prophet_ had been full of Sirius Black, the Dark Lord’s crazy second-in-command, leading the escape and uniting the Death Eaters to form a striking force. Kingsley hadn’t been able to send Tonks to Chile because Tonks, of course, had been in the field herself.

The _Daily Prophet_ was now spread out all over the kitchen table. When Kingsley pushed it aside, he found a note underneath - _I’ll be in Manchester all day. Don’t wait for me. Remus._ It must have been written before the _Prophet_ arrived.

But there was no trace to be found of Sirius himself. Kingsley raised the portrait of old Mrs. Black searching all floors, checking Buckbeak’s and Sirius’ room, having a look at the guest rooms and even the small study in which they had gotten drunk together one time. He had shouted for him. When he discovered Kreacher lurking in a hallway, the house elf laughed spitefully and waddled away.

Kingsley was just starting to seriously panic when Phineas Nigellus showed up in a landscape, smirking down at him arrogantly.

“Ah,” he said. “It’s the Half-blood that only speaks to my great-great-grandson in rooms without portraits.”

Kingsley didn’t have time for games. “Where did he go, Phineas? Did he take the door or the fireplace? Did somebody order him somewhere? Did he say anything before he left?”

Phineas wrinkled his nose. “My great-great-grandson only speaks to me if he has messages to be delivered to the Headmaster,” he said. “I don’t doubt that he went to commit another honorable and useless Gryffindor feat. Maybe he has finally remembered that a Black only answers to himself.” He shrugged. “He read the paper, he became the dog, and off he went. So much power,” he added with a sigh. “So much power wasted away.”

“Door?” Kingsley asked impatiently.

The portrait rolled its eyes but nodded, and Kingsley was on his way. A second later he had closed the door behind him, ready to twist around and Apparate.

His thoughts were racing through all places Sirius had mentioned in conversation or that had served as scenes of crime in the Black file. Hogwarts. Godric’s Hollow. If Sirius had read those articles, he knew that the Aurors were just watching out for him at all those places. At this point he was known for always appearing at locations no normal fugitive would ever dare enter - but he knew that they knew that, none the least because Kingsley had warned him about it. But why should Sirius go to Godric’s Hollow now? Hogwarts? Potter wasn’t in danger. None of the ten Death Eaters escaping Azkaban had a connection to the Potters’ death or Pettigrew. Nothing about today’s events had any kind of personal connection to Sirius, barring...

Barring Azkaban itself.

Kingsley swallowed hard. _He’s always right in the one place he shouldn’t be, doing exactly what everybody was trying to prevent him from doing._

Despite what he had told Lupin, Kingsley had never claimed to understand all of Sirius. Sirius just pointedly kept doing whatever nobody had expected him to dare do, and whatever scared Lupin _and_ Kingsley most.

Without any further hesitation, he Disapparated.   


* * *

January wind was roaming Scotland’s coast. Last night’s snow had transformed into dew covering wildly sprawling fern. Waves high as giants were attacking the shore, viciously exploding when hitting the cliffs. At the horizon, the sea was melting and mixing with a sky made of just the same shade of grey. Azkaban was a bleary black dot in the distance. Fugitives who didn’t drown when swimming to the shore froze to death instead.

The man who had managed the impossible was standing at the precipice. A frozen statue with flapping black robes and long hair whipping his face, an edgy silhouette like on a painting, black on grey. For one wild moment, Sirius was _beautiful_ \- not in the cultivated way the young man on the photographs had been, but coarsely beautiful like art that showed a truth, even if it was one that nobody wanted to know.

Assured that his friend would have heard the Apparation despite the breakers, Kingsley came to a halt a couple of feet behind him in the high grass. Automatically, he had turned to check out the perimeter. On the left, rocks were limiting the view, while the cliff was collapsing into another steep on the right. Nobody was here except for them, especially no Aurors. Sirius didn’t turn around.

“I did it in the morning at dawn,” he said after a while as if they were just continuing a conversation. He had to raise his voice so that Kingsley would understand him, the wind blowing all sound away. He pointed down the steep. “I reached shore somewhere down there. It was summer. But there was at least as much wind as there is today. There’s always that much wind on Azkaban.”

Kingsley wanted to answer that Sirius could tell him about it later, that they had to head back home, that they weren’t safe here at all. Something was stopping him, however. Instead, he stepped closer to be able to follow the direction of Sirius’ finger. Two-and-a-half years ago, he had searched that shore for magic traces. Once he’d even toyed with the thought of chasing a low-ranking Auror into the water to find out if it was possible, swimming that far. Still, he probably wouldn’t have recognized the area now. He’d been busy with a case then. A Death Eater had had to be captured.

“Then I made a mile or two as a dog,” Sirius continued, turning to look past Kingsley and gesticulating at the inland. “I was thinking of Moody - what I would have to do to fool Moody. Did you know that he used to be my teacher?” He was looking at the island again. “But that was a long time ago.”

Trembling from the cold, Kingsley buried his hands in the pockets of his robe. Sirius, he noticed with concern, wasn’t wearing a cloak despite having had a cold just last night. He still sounded clogged. “I know,” he said. “I interviewed Alastor during the investigation. He told me to be careful. He said you’d been one of the best students he’s ever had.”

“Right. Great student.” Sirius shook his head; he might have snorted, but the wind carried the sound away. “They’re all right in the Order, you are aware? They say it’s my own fault that James and Lily died and that I was in Azkaban. We could have told Albus that I was the Secret-Keeper, after all. We were naive. We thought it’s about _our_ child, we thought the war depends on more people than just an old teacher...”

“Nobody says it’s your fault that the Potters...” Kingsley started saying, but Sirius interrupted him as if he hadn’t even heard him.

“But twelve years later, Dumbledore is still there and I’m not, right? And he’s turning out to be right about everything he’s said. I can’t help Harry, I can’t teach him myself, I can’t even protect him from Snape. I have nothing better to do with my time, but I can’t take on a guard shift without endangering the Order. Nobody except Snape knows these ten Death Eaters better than me, but I can’t help chase them down. I know more about Dementors than any guard in Azkaban, so what?” He spat out. “I can’t help. I’m the bloody right hand man of the Dark Lord. And the worst part about is that I _could_ be. I would have known exactly how to get those ten out of Azkaban, maybe even faster. But on our side, I’m useless. I might as well go back to Azkaban.”

“Sirius...” Kingsley said with alarm, but Sirius wasn’t listening. The ex-Auror had turned away from the sheer, taking some steps away from the island as if it wasn’t actually important. But now he exploded into motion, turning around and spreading his arms and screaming at Azkaban as if it could hear.

“Take me back, goddammit! You want me that much? Here I am, you just fucking come and get me if you want me! Put me back into my cell and _take me back_!”

There was more than that, an incoherent explosion of “Just finish the job” and “Fuck you all.” Kingsley was in motion, covering the distance between them with few large steps to grab Sirius’ shoulders, ignoring how the man was fighting him. He held him still by superior strength and repeating his name, their rivaling voices a harsh cacophony. Sirius’ demands became arguments, and then he was begging. Finally, he turned his eyes away from Azkaban, sagging against Kingsley’s chest. He was punching his chest without force, and the words transformed into a unpracticed kind of sob.

Kingsley held him steady, unsure of what else he could do. It had taken so long for him to identify Sirius’ moods as the passion he was keeping in check; he felt helpless now. He only knew that he had been wrong once again. _Just wait until someone he loves is in danger,_ he’d told Lupin, _and he’ll be out there fighting anybody who dares attack him._ But the man in his arms wasn’t fighting anything anymore. He didn’t have the power left to do so - he was done.

He’d never again endanger anybody but himself, he’d told Kingsley during their fight in the study. And Sirius was an idealist still, who wouldn’t just say such a thing without trying to live up to it. He would never endanger anybody but himself again, and making that choice had taken all his options away. He was imprisoned in Number Twelve - forever, as far as he knew. In the eyes of the world, he’d become what he had sworn never to be. _I hope I'll live just long enough to bury them,_ Kingsley remembered an old line from a letter.

He wondered if the Firewhiskey ever helped at all.

“Listen, Sirius,” he said. “Listen, it’s not as bad as it seems. I’ve been meaning to tell you that Tonks has...”

“Shut up, Shacklebolt,” Sirius whispered without looking up. “Just shut up.”

Softly, Kingsley pressed his lips against Sirius’ forehead.

Time passed. Underneath them, waves were crashing against rock, the wind roaring and changing direction erratically, once carrying distant voices towards them that might have been Aurors. Grey clouds were still covering the sky, but it was too warm for snow, and it didn’t start raining. After a while, Kingsley took note of the fact that Azkaban’s eternal mist seemed to have dissipated, as if the Dementors had taken it along when they left.

It was strange, he thought, that it was mist instead of shadows.

After a while, Sirius detangled from him. He gave the island one last hard, unreadable look. Then, within a blink, a shaggy black dog’s paws were touching the grass instead of the man. Crouching down next to him with a frown, Kingsley found a wet nose nudging his hand. He sat down in the icy cold grass, understanding, allowing the dog to put his head on his thigh and starting to pet him with freezing fingers. It was a cowardly kind of flight for a Gryffindor, but maybe Sirius had earned himself some cowardice.

 _It’s my task to help him through this in once piece, not Lupin’s or Dumbledore’s,_ Kingsley thought. _But it’s also because I need him in one piece. And between the two of us, I’m better at dealing with us, so it’s my task if he can just hang in there for a while._

He’d made a mistake, he realized another time. Since he’d started working on the Black file, Kingsley had started understanding more and more that it was destroying Sirius not to be treated like a soldier - like a man. He’d been criticizing people like Lupin when they didn’t allow Sirius to be responsible for his own life, because that wouldn’t be a burden for Sirius. The opposite was true, the lack of responsibility was the thing he couldn’t handle. Twelve years of Azkaban hadn’t managed to drive him over the edge, but the Order just might.

But in all that time, Kingsley himself had kept away his work on Sirius’ case from him, never telling him a single word about it. Partly, he had feared that he would be mixing work and private life in a dangerous way, losing the last shreds of his impartiality. Sometimes, he had also feared that Sirius would try to tell him what to do. But in the end, he had been afraid to give Sirius hope just to crush it. If working on the case became too risky for Tonks and himself, Kingsley would have to stop working on it.

Except none of that had been his choice - working on the file was his choice, but deciding whether Sirius could handle that fact wasn’t. That was exactly what Dumbledore was doing with Harry Potter, allowing him access to his destiny bit by bit, forever opposed by Sirius fiercely. And Sirius, unlike Harry Potter, wasn't a child. Sirius had a right to access information pertaining to his life. Kingsley had a duty to give it to him, one that went far beyond his duties as a friend or a lover - this was simply about respect. A man without respect by his peers wasn’t a man, just like a wizard without a wand wasn’t a wizard.

Kingsley sighed.

“Last September,” he said, wet and cold and trembling, looking at the sea. “I was almost fired because Tonks seemed to have lost her mind...”

The dog listened quietly, motionless except for the occasional twitch of his ears.  


* * *

To Kingsley’s relief, they reached Grimmauld Place before Lupin did. Nobody seemed to have missed them. And no matter how many long looks Phineas Nigellus threw Kingsley’s way, he didn’t seem to have told Albus Dumbledore a single word of what had transpired.

Sirius remained uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the evening, following Kingsley’s request to sit down on the bed without resistance. Kingsley left Lupin a note telling him they’d retired early, undressing Sirius and himself, slipping under the blanket next to Sirius.

“It’s so strange,” Sirius said after a moment, looking at the ceiling.

Kingsley turned his head at him. “What’s strange?”

“Azkaban was always windy, even in summer,” Sirius said. “I never would have thought I’d say this, but I miss the wind every day.”

Kingsley shuddered. Wrapping an arm around Sirius and pulling him closer, he sent off a prayer to whatever god might listen. First of all, asking for a night without nightmares. Second of all, asking that his confession hadn’t been too little done too late.


	7. Risks Worth Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This was about one of them._

When Kingsley got up the next morning, making tea in the kitchen, he was still worried. So he had done it - he’d told Sirius about their attempts to clear his name - but he still wasn’t sure that he hadn’t made everything worse. What if they learned that they couldn’t proceed without Pettigrew’s confession? What if it had been too little too late, and he’d have to watch Sirius falling into depression even further? Sirius had never been afraid to die. But if he had reached a point where he didn’t even fear Azkaban, Kingsley might have come too late.

The sound of steps made him turn around. Sirius was standing in the doorway. He’d been fast asleep when Kingsley got up, and he rarely stood up before noon, frustration and hangovers reaching their peak in the morning.

He was rubbing sleep out of his eyes, tiredly waving at Kingsley while stepping inside and sitting down at the head of the table. For a moment there, he just stared at the table top, as if fully waking up by force of will alone.

“So,” he said, looking up. “That plan. Is there anything on it that I can read?”  


* * *

It enthused Tonks to learn that Sirius was finally in on the case. She was even more pleased to find Sirius grateful about it, doing her the favor of joking with her and bringing on the charm, a changed man for a spell. It seemed all worth it just for that sight.

However, the real work began when Alastor Moody showed up at Grimmauld Place one afternoon, calling the three of them to the table, unreeling a large piece of parchment, and briefing them like a general would brief his troops before battle. The fact that he wasn’t just dealing with the Order’s members, but with three Aurors, only added a more serious note. As all four of them noticed one after the other. This was about one of them. This was Aurors’ business.

It became harder for the Hogwarts professors to attend the Order’s meetings, leaving the brunt of the work in Diggle and Vance’s hands. Meanwhile, the modified Black file was growing closer to perfection. Kingsley had spent long hours reinterpreting the findings of his investigation in such a way that more and more ‘evidence’ of Sirius’ innocence had started showing up, drawing the image of an unfortunate hero who had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Most evidence didn’t even point at events that had truly taken place. For example, Kingsley had put a lot of time and effort into reconstructing the last charm done by Sirius’ wand as a Cheering Charm. No matter nobody, including Sirius, had the slightest idea what charm it truly could have been - but everything that didn’t point at twelve dead Muggles would work.

The collaboration with Sirius turned out to be more productive than Kingsley would ever have imagined. It wasn’t just knowledge Sirius had gathered during his own time in the DMLE, but especially twelve years of prison gossip enabling him to place all sorts of blame on the shoulders of all sorts of Death Eaters, many of whom weren’t connected to him whatsoever. Sirius prove to be a both creative and nasty strategist who didn’t bother hiding how much fun he was having. When Sturgis Podmore was released from Azkaban at the first of February, he was able to help them add more refreshing details.

Podmore first visited Headquarters at the third. The whole Order of the Phoenix, including even Dumbledore and Snape, had gathered to welcome him back. The vibrant forty-year-old with the wild blonde curls wasn’t as much as a shadow of his former self – a quiet thing that had lost too much weight in few months. He barely said anything before retreating into the background and hiding behind a wall of silence. Sturgis didn’t ask for the reason when Alastor took him aside to interrogate him about the escape of the Death Eaters, news from the other side. He delivered answers in a tone of voice that suggested none of this had anything to do with him. Though one time, Kingsley saw Sirius and Sturgis talking quietly and intensely in a corner. Sirius didn’t say anything about it later, though he did wake up covered in sweat that night. Kingsley still decided to find the sight encouraging.

News were reaching them from Hogwarts every now and then, none of them good. Every time Dolores Umbridge was mentioned, Lupin pressed his lips together until they turned white.

Tonks was the one to bring the werewolf to one of their briefings without bothering to ask for permission first. Alastor gave Lupin a long considering look out of his wildly rotating eye before acting like he had always been present. Sirius had telegraphed him a question across the table, one that Kingsley couldn’t quite read, and Lupin had answered with a nod. An experienced liar like Lupin was forever useful, especially since the implementation of Alastor’s plan had begun.

As soon as a sighting of one of the fugitive Death Eaters was reported to the DMLE, Tonks stood at the ready in Sirius’ body, making sure that Voldemort’s right hand man was busy somewhere else - they had moved Sirius’ supposed base of operation from Chile to Switzerland weeks ago out of practical considerations. If Tonks was on duty at the time, Lupin or Kingsley took over with Polyjuice Potion, and on a few memorable occasions, Sirius just played himself. It hurt Kingsley to witness how Moody made Sirius re-earn every ounce of trust that they once must have shared. But Kingsley knew he wasn’t the only one who noticed how a rather peculiar familiarity seemed to reappear between the two so different men. Lupin noticed it, too. Lupin also was the first one to chuckle if Sirius and Alastor started talking in gibberish acronyms, a shorthand to have died in the war alongside the Prewetts and Meadowes. It was like something out of a period movie.

Later that month, Potter’s Quibbler interview threw the Order into a frenzy. Kingsley just shook his head in amusement about Sirius’ verbose approval. While McGonagall was still throwing her hands up in horror next to Emmeline Vance fanning herself in outrage, Kingsley, Tonks and Sirius sneaked out of the house like children to stage their greatest ‘coup’ so far: a showdown of Antonin Dolohov and Sirius Black witnessed by three British wizards vacationing in St. Moritz, Switzerland. It featured Dolohov calling Sirius names such as “Dumbledore’s sidekick” and Sirius, respectively, kicking his ass. Tonks was in top form. Kingsley had never seen Sirius so happy. The sex was amazing that night.

In early March, Kingsley could only apologize by way of shrugging when Scrimgeour appeared in his cubicle after an interim report, visibly fighting off an ulcer.

“None of this is making sense anymore, Shacklebolt, none of this is working out,” he had managed, waving about the file in alarm. “I don’t know what you have been up to in the last two months instead of work, but I will hand this file to _two_ other Aurors for immediate review! And if they will tell me that none of this is making any sense indeed, you can _forget about that promotion right now!_ ”

The two Aurors in question were Clearwater and Proudfoot, two of the best investigators of the post-war generation. The next day, Kingsley noticed Clearwater engrossed in the ‘Hagrid interview’ so deeply in the cafeteria that he aimed his sandwich at his nose. And Proudfoot was sighted in the men’s room muttering “How can that be, how can that _be_?” to himself.

The eighth of March, the Hogwarts drama escalated when a triumphant Umbridge fired Professor Trelawney; Dumbledore barely managed finding a substitute in time before Umbridge could take care of that as well. The poor professor had started drinking from shock, Professor McGonagall reported with deep concern - the same Professor McGonagall who would have barely considered Sybill Trelawney worthy of a nose wrinkle in Kingsley’s Hogwarts days. And who would never have used swear words, either.

It was only one week later that Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape came to Grimmauld Place to gather all the Order in the kitchen.

“A rumor has reached me,” said Professor Dumbledore, who was reached by rumors on a strangely regular basis although nobody was ever quite sure how, “one to worry me deeply.” His eyes had come to rest on Sirius while he spoke. Kingsley knew immediately that their cover had been blown.

Silence immediately descended upon the room. The mood in the Order had been tense as it was. Standing right across from her, Kingsley saw open fear crossing Molly Weasley’s face.

Coincidentally, Kingsley had found himself standing close to Sirius, just behind him, shoulders almost bumping. It seemed like a good position - it was where a Wizarding fugleman would have stood in the old days. Each amongst their small group immediately understood what this was about. Alastor sat up straight in his chair, his magic eye rotating wildly. Lupin looked up. A terse Tonks materialized at his side.

Kingsley wondered if there was any meaning to the fact that Dumbledore was looking at Sirius first, not at the actual initiators. The headmaster had to know - he always knew all - that Sirius couldn’t have initiated this, even if he didn’t know who was involved exactly. Sirius had straightened up, his face blank, as if it were 1981 again, drumhead court-martial all over again. Kingsley had seen a picture of that day. It had always struck him how Sirius had looked like he knew deep inside that he was guilty indeed - as if James and Lily Potter had been killed because of him, as if he had blackmailed Kingsley and Tonks into helping him just by existing. Sirius was in a bad habit of taking responsibility for things that were out of his control.

“A rumor has reached me,” Dumbledore spoke on with his soft voice. “that some members of the Order have been working on clearing Sirius’ name before the Wizengamot against my wishes. Your loyalty to Sirius is commendable. But I had very good reasons when I told you that now was not the time.” He shook his head. “I’m deeply disappointed.”

A murmur rushed through the kitchen.

“We’d never disobey orders,” Emmeline Vance said in confusion. “This is war, not a game.”

“’Bout damn time,” Mundungus Fletcher proclaimed, raising his glass.

“Who are we talking about?” Elphias Doge looked around sharply, and in the back of the room, Severus Snape was curling his lips into a sneer. Molly spoke up, but her words were swallowed by the other voices. Bill Weasley was scanning the room with a frown as if solving a puzzle.

Sirius waited without trying to speak, looking away, pale as a ghost. Kingsley had to fight an instinct to wrap his arms around him, to at least place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. A wave of fury at the world itself - at the Order of the Phoenix - made him shudder. They all meant well - Dumbledore with his disappointment, Emmeline Vance with her attempt to defend the Order. It was a honorable reaction - they were good, loyal people after all, following their leader and working for the mission without question. But for God’s sake - Dumbledore was disappointed that somebody had tried to clear Sirius’ name; Vance didn’t understand why anybody would.

But then he remembered that he’d thought the same way just a few months ago. Conflicting emotions started to rise within him. Kingsley promised himself to sort through them once he found the time.

“Quiet!” One rough order, wood rapping on plank, and the kitchen became silent. It hadn’t been Albus Dumbledore, but Alastor Moody who had spoken. For a moment there, he was all general and legend instead of a retired paranoiac. Everybody was looking at him. He nodded at Dumbledore grumpily. _They are yours. Deal with them._

“Thank you, Alastor,” the headmaster said, turning to address them all. “Such a noble goal doesn’t warrant accusations, so I will not tell you who was involved...”

“Bugger it!” Tonks exclaimed. Molly turned to stare at her in shock, and she blushed. “Uhm, pardon that. But - bugger it! Professor Dumbledore, it was the best idea in the world. And it was mine. Everybody can know that.”

Kingsley had already been in motion before she had started to speak - not quite sure what he should do, or how he should do it, but knowing now. He stepped forward, using the opportunity to place his hand in Sirius’ back for a moment covertly. “I have been working on modifying the Black file to help our case since September,” he said. “I did most of the work.”

“Kingsley?” Molly was looking at him with round eyes.

“And I...” Lupin gave Sirius a smile. “...have been helping with the execution for some time.”

“Well,” Sirius said. “And I’ve been making tea.” But the tension in his face wasn’t going away.

Albus Dumbledore sighed.

Arthur cleared his voice. “What exactly are we talking about here?” he asked. “What exactly have you been doing?”

This was when Sirius finally did speak up, out of what had to be some protective instinct, but his, “I’d rather say the details don’t matter...” was swallowed by both Kingsley and Tonks, who had started speaking at the same time. Tonks won. She was an enthusiast through and through, Kingsley had to grant her that. Once she made a choice, she stuck to it no matter what. She resembled her cousin a lot in that way.

“Would you believe it!” Diggle managed when she was half through her short, efficient report, one thing every young Auror learned to excel at.

“I’ve Apparated to Chile four times, and three times to Switzerland,” Tonks told him proudly. “Once I even went to Gringott’s main office in Bern.” Professor McGonagall cleared her voice as a warning; since Tonks had been one of her students before being an Auror, she promptly closed her mouth.

“Look, Albus.” Moody spoke up for the first time. Lazily, he sat up straighter. “It was the young people’s choice to decide whether they wanted to take the risk or not. That didn’t have a lot to do with the Order. Shacklebolt came to me and told me he’d been working on this case for months. Our main weapon was Tonks, and she had agreed to pose as Black. Personally...” His scared face contorted into a kind of grimace. “...I was part of Black’s arrest as an Auror. And I’m too old to sweet-talk my way out of a debt.” He gave Dumbledore a nod. “Your assessment was wrong. Black’s legal status can’t wait. It has to be tackled whenever the opportunity arises.”

“And we are starting to see some results, too.” Kingsley jumped at the chance to speak up. Especially Molly’s eyes turned to him accusingly whenever he opened his mouth - that poor woman probably hadn’t ever had a chance to notice that she had lost her ally in her fights with Sirius. “Scrimgeour is having the whole case re-evaluated as we speak. And I’d already know if anything hadn’t worked out.” He wouldn’t be an Auror anymore if that had happened. He’d be serving time in Azkaban. “All we need is for the Aurors to realize that the case makes most sense if Sirius is innocent. If the investigators start believing it, Amelia Bones will start listening, and then it’s down to a good lawyer in the Wizengamot.” He took a deep breath. “With just a little luck, Sirius’ name will be cleared by the end of the year.”

Sirius turned his head very slowly to look at him. That look alone would have been worth being thrown out of the Order.

Dumbledore frowned. “Maybe you are right. Maybe I was wrong,” he said seriously. “But that doesn’t change the fact - and you, Alastor, should know that - that an organization like the Order of the Phoenix does not work if I cannot be sure of having your unconditional trust. Don’t forget the last time a decision was made without my knowledge.” He pointedly looked at Sirius. “Two members of the Order died, and you yourself, Sirius, were imprisoned in Azkaban.”

“The Fidelius charm had nothing to do with the Order...” Sirius started saying. Standing so close to him, Kingsley could feel the tension spreading throughout his body. But Dumbledore had already raised his hand to silence him.

“Faith,” he continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, though very softly. “is the keystone of this Order. When you became a part of it, you all promised to follow my lead and to have faith in my rulings. Believe me if I tell you that Lord Voldemort will soon be trying to steal the prophecy again, maybe even attacking Harry Potter. Each distraction can be the end of us. Each distraction can mean Harry’s death.” Kingsley couldn’t but put his palm on Sirius’ back again tersely. “I am deeply sorry, Sirius. But I cannot allow you to see your plan through.”

Silence had descended upon the room yet again, but it was heavier than before, trembling from tension. Kingsley felt Sirius shaking under his palm.

 _He’ll have a breakdown,_ he thought. _If Dumbledore is really serious about this one, Sirius will crumble and he won’t get up again. He can deal with a strategy that doesn’t work out, but not with this - he can’t handle being told that he hasn’t been worth it. If he’s told that it’s a matter of protecting Harry, he’ll stop fighting, even if he doesn’t think it’s true._ He hated Dumbledore, then and there, for putting that particular spin on it.

A long moment passed until Arthur Weasley hesitantly opened his mouth. At the same time, Emmeline Vance nodded in approval. “Bravo,” she said. “It’s a hard choice to make, but You-Know-Who has to remain our first priority.”

Diggle joined in reluctantly. “Hierarchy is important, else nothing would be working at all.”

“So let us focus back on the prophecy,” Snape said swiftly, a shine of quiet satisfaction in his eyes.

Dumbledore nodded an agreement. “Very well...” he said.

“No.”

The voice was so raw that Kingsley had trouble placing it, but then he saw that it was Sturgis Podmore, who had stood up from his chair in the back of the room. His blonde hair still looked stringy rather than angelic, his fingers crossed awkwardly. But the determination in his eyes was the same Kingsley had known before.

“You keep talking about trust,” he said, struggling for words. “I fought alongside Black in the first war. I didn’t know him very well, but I trusted him because he was in the Order. I thought about that, in Azkaban. We all would have died for each other in the war. I wasn’t sure if I still trust you, Professor. I ... I wasn’t sure who in this room would die for me. I wasn’t sure if the Order had been worth going to Azkaban. It’s not supposed to work the way it’s working now.” He swallowed hard, looking away. “If you stop the work on Sirius’ case, I’ll leave.”

“Hear, hear,” Tonks muttered, drowned out by Doge’s squeak of, “Mutiny!” but Kingsley still heard her, daring to smile. He recognized that look in Albus Dumbledore’s eyes - he had seen him in interrogations numerous times, the moments suspects understood that there was no lie left they could reasonably tell.  


* * *

Albus Dumbledore returned to Grimmauld Place just a day later.

To Sirius and Kingsley’s amusement, Lupin had taken off to ‘bring Tonks a book.’ They didn’t expect him back any time soon. Kingsley himself had worked an early shift that day, scheduled to go home to sleep it off soon. At this time, however, he was still sitting on the couch in the drawing room next to Sirius, an upside down hat in front of them, a plate of cherries between them. For a reason Kingsley wasn’t quite clear on, they were engaging in the art of spitting cherry stones.

There was a foot of space between them. When Dumbledore appeared in the door frame, they still both scrambled apart as if they’d been caught playing pranks in school.

Dumbledore didn’t comment. He walked into the room without a word, acknowledging Kingsley with a tilt of his head and coming to stand in front of Sirius.

“The Order made a wise choice yesterday, Sirius,” he said in his quiet way. “My point of view was wrong. I do agree with Sturgis. I have been expecting you to have faith in me, forgetting that your very existence proved that such faith wouldn’t have been justified. The Order of the Phoenix has been founded to protect people, and protection should start amongst our own. I apologize.”

Kingsley held his breath, because there was a moment when Sirius didn’t react at all. He was just standing there, searching Dumbledore’s face as if he couldn’t decide if the old man had meant it, as if he didn’t know if it would be a lie if he said he’d accept the apology. For one terrible moment, Kingsley was afraid it was too late for that, as they had launched their plan almost too late - that this was another thing that Sirius had lost. He was too proud for his own good.

But then, Sirius extended his hand, and Dumbledore took it warmly.

“Thank you,” Sirius said with a perfectly steady voice. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

“Indeed,” he said. “Thank you.”

Instead of saying goodbye, the professor looked from Sirius to Kingsley and back, giving them an almost invisible nod. It made Kingsley wonder about all the things Dumbledore did know - but that he overlooked on purpose.  


* * *

All this happened only a week before Dolores Umbridge discovered ‘Dumbledore’s Army.’ A week before Kingsley had a second to evaluate the risks, making a choice between being an Order’s member or an Auror. He decided to stick with Dumbledore, drawing his wand and using Auror privileges to enable the headmaster’s flight from Hogwarts. He did so without so much as blinking.

And then they lived happily ever after, or at least until June, when Sirius went to protect his godson and fell through a veil and just ceased to exist.


	8. Gone - Forever - Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It couldn't have ended any other way, Kingsley thought._

It was Tonks who appeared in his fireplace, breathless. For reasons unbeknown to her, Harry Potter and some of his friends had taken off to London on Hagrid’s Thestrals, baited into the Department of Mysteries by Voldemort himself. Snape had informed Grimmauld Place. Moody had been overpowered on guard duty but had escaped, waiting for reinforcements to arrive. Maybe they still had time.

They Apparated into the Ministry’s atrium, joining the rest of the Order in front of the department’s doors. Moody grimly readjusted his wooden leg, not supposed to be fighting anymore at all in his condition. Lupin looked pale and composed. But Kingsley’s eyes were on Sirius immediately, who was last-minute checking his wand with focused calm and routine.

“Harry thinks that Voldemort is keeping me prisoner,” he said without looking up, low enough for only Kingsley to hear. “I have to go, Kingsley. If I don’t, I might as well just join forces with them.”

“I know,” Kingsley said. Suppressing a surge of terrible fear, he squeezed Sirius’ shoulder hard and that was just when Moody pushed the door open. There were Death Eaters and too many children, and the fight was on.   


* * *

Kingsley had never been so scared in his life.

Even as a cadet in training, he had excelled as a composed duelist who never lost sight of the whole scene, who couldn’t even be confused by Apparations during duels. Never losing control of his magic, he won his fights because he always found the time to think. But it wasn’t working that way today. The moment they had charged into the room, the world blurred, becoming a chaos of Death Eaters who had nothing to lose this time around, all of them crazed after Azkaban, screaming children, and somewhere in there, Sirius.

Kingsley was overcome by iron determination he had never felt before. Instead of taking the rear and keeping an eye on the team like usually would, he put himself in the thick of it all, facing off with two hooded figures at once. He caught glimpses of Sirius dueling Dolohov, fluid motions and fighting like dancing, and the sight caught his heart in his throat, except there was no time - they had to get _out_. Potter had to be safe and Sirius had to be gone from the room, and God, if Scrimgeour arrived to see Sirius amongst them...

But the next time he looked, Dolohov was down and Sirius was pushing Harry out of the way of a curse, and Kingsley suddenly calmed down. It was nonsense to divide his focus between surviving and Sirius right now. Sirius was a professional. He was needed today, and he knew what he was doing. His stakes weren’t higher than anybody else’s, and it was his decision to take the risk, not Kingsley’s. Sirius in battle - that was where he belonged.

A Stunning curse, and Kingsley’s opponent - pockmarked Rockwood - stumbled and fell. A door banging open - Kingsley twisted around. Albus Dumbledore stood in the entrance, scanning the room...

Only one other pair was still fighting, but neither Sirius nor Lestrange seemed to have noticed, and it was just a matter of seconds - not enough time to react when it happened.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion - when the curse hit Sirius, when he stumbled backwards.

 _Like a dancer,_ Kingsley thought involuntarily. _Like the Beater doing charm work on a broom in Hogwarts. Like the Auror that they used to cheer for._

Phineas Nigellus echoed through his mind: _So much wasted talent._

Kingsley was in motion.

He was approaching from the far left - couldn’t see Sirius’ face - but it seemed like an eternity while he fell - and Kingsley still was too late. Sirius’ body formed a graceful arch. For that last moment, he was all grace again, just like in a portrait - like the man he’d used to be - like the man that one day at the shore...

The curtains of the Veil rushed back into position. Kingsley stumbled to a halt mere steps away, close enough to hear the whispers of the dead behind the archway. Sirius was gone.

Kingsley stared at the Veil in breathless shock. There was no moment of disbelief, no moment of not understanding, but only the immediate knowledge that the man whom he loved had been there and then gone from one moment to the next.

Gone - forever - dead.

Lestrange started laughing sharply.

Kingsley tightened the grip on his wand.   


* * *

It was just a few days after the fight when a short note about Sirius’ acquittal appeared in the _Daily Prophet_. The Ministry was trying to save face - making it look like it didn’t matter anymore now, anyway, seeing as he was dead. Sirius’ presence in the fight and the respective testimonies by the participants, all lying through their teeth, had finally convinced Scrimgeour that something about this case had gone wrong from the start. He had personally brought it before the Wizengamot. On the topic of Kingsley’s promotion, he sadly shook his head and put him on Muggle protection duty to sit this one out. Then he went off to prepare his election campaign.

The same day, the Order of the Phoenix met in 12 Grimmauld Place for the last time. Sirius had left the building and all his possessions to his godson in his will.

“We cannot be certain that control of the house will be given to Harry rather than a blood relative,” Dumbledore had said. “It is safer to find another location...”

“As if Sirius didn't know what he was doing...” Kingsley flew in his face, but Lupin held him back and it was as if the feeble hand on his shoulder stole his own strength away, too.

They raised their glasses, saying how loyal a comrade, how doting a godfather Sirius Black had been. Dedicating the whole last year of his life into the service of the Order. Dying for the Order and for Harry Potter. He might not have always followed orders, but that was only because all his actions had been ruled by his concern for Harry. He’d fought for the Order in the first war, and he would have done so again.

Those were empty words, Kingsley thought, his eyes burning fiercely. Again, those were the words of people who wanted to feel good about themselves without acting the part - who were still telling themselves that the world was a fair place, who maybe were thinking, in a corner of their mind, that it wasn’t bad, being rid of this problem. Or maybe they just didn’t know what they were talking about. Maybe they hadn’t known Sirius at all.

They should have said that Sirius Black had been a passionate, a proud man. The first man to escape from Azkaban, the first Gryffindor amongst the Blacks, the best student of Alastor Moody. They should have called him the powerful, dangerous wizard and duelist he still had been, true to his ideals and loyal until death.

He’d been stubborn and determined. He had adopted his best friend’s child as if he was his own son, although he hadn’t seen him for thirteen years. He’d played Wizarding poker like you wouldn’t believe, and at seventeen, he had charmed the Quidditch pitch up in the air, making an eleven-year-old stare in awe, never forgetting the sight. He had hated being useless, never understanding that he was useful to his friends just by being back. He had hated Grimmauld Place 12. He had hated hiding. He never would have hidden from anything, except to protect others, except to prove that he could.

“He was gay,” Kingsley heard himself say.

The noise in the kitchen just stopped.

One after the other, pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. Severus Snape opened his mouth, then closed it without understanding. Even he hadn’t seen that one coming in his wildest dreams.

“He was gay,” Kingsley repeated. “A homosexual. A poof. And if any of you would have had a problem with that, he would have rubbed his hands and taken the challenge.”

Deafening silence.

A very small, mostly suppressed sound escaped from Molly’s mouth.

Lupin looked at his glass for a moment in thought, raising it again. “When he was fifteen, Sirius became an Animagus to protect me,” he said steadily, if waxen, as if Kingsley hadn’t said anything unusual at all. “He didn’t have any patience for Arithmancy. He didn’t cast Boggarts out but kept them as pets. His nickname was Padfoot.”

Dung Fletcher waved his glass without fuss. “He held his liquor better than me.”

It could never have ended in a different way, Kingsley thought. Protecting those he loved, going down with glory and an explosion that nobody would ever forget. _He would have hated dying before I got a chance to see him like that, fighting like that._ Kingsley himself would have hated letting him go before seeing him alive like that just once.

As a proud man with honor, still himself and whole and still free - free to be whatever he pleased.  


* * *

Kingsley would often remember that one night after they came back from Azkaban’s shore. He’d been relieved that nobody had missed them. Even Nigellus hadn’t ever breathed a word of it.

Sirius had stayed untypically quiet all through the evening, allowing Kingsley to help him undress, sitting on the bed. When Kingsley came back from leaving Lupin a note, he’d undressed himself, sliding under the covers next to Sirius.

“It’s so strange,” Sirius had said after a moment, looking at the ceiling.

Kingsley turned his head at him. “What’s strange?”

“Azkaban was always windy, even in summer,” Sirius said. “I never would have thought I’d ever say this, but I miss the wind some days.”

Kingsley shuddered. Instead of answering, he’d wrapped an arm around Sirius to pull him closer. Sirius tended to sleep in the nude when Kingsley was over for obvious reasons, but tonight, he’d donned on that impossible Wizarding version of a night gown - warm, scratching cotton, the only thing amiss a nightcap. Maybe his cold made him freeze. Kingsley hoped it was that. He didn’t think he could deal with something awful like its similarity to the prisoners’ robes calming him down.

Sirius’ stomach felt hard and wiry under Kingsley’s palm, raising and falling with shallow breaths. “I assume it’s normal,” Sirius said after a moment. He was very still. “I was there for twelve years. Longer than Hogwarts. I got used to it. Sometimes, I still wake up in the morning, waiting for the change of guards.”

He shifted, until he was flat on his back again, able to look at the ceiling. Kingsley pressed his lips onto the other man’s shoulder, feeling himself tremble a little. Sirius’ mind was still a mystery to him, and right now he feared that it could be a very dark one.

“Hey.” Sirius had noticed. He glanced at Kingsley. “Don’t worry. I’m alright again.” He reached for Kingsley’s hand.

“I should be the one reassuring you, not the other way around,” Kingsley complained in a low voice.

Sirius smiled slightly. “But I don’t need to be reassured, Shacklebolt. Not now. You know...” He hesitated. “Azkaban will always be there, you know? It isn’t going anywhere. So maybe... maybe I shouldn’t try to make it go away... hell, I’m terrible at this.” Tightening his grip on Kingsley’s hand, he spoke on with more force. “I mean, I wanted to think that Azkaban isn’t a part of me. I didn’t want to be there, they forced me to be there. But now it’s there and it isn’t going away, so... so bugger it. It’s there. It’s a part of my life, so I better get used to it.

“At least it made me meet you,” he added in a forced attempt at humor.

“You’d be my superior, otherwise,” Kingsley agreed. “And I don’t sleep with Aurors.”

“That’s because you have terrible taste.”

“True.”

Sirius half-heartedly hit his shoulder. Kingsley chuckled.

“Come here,” he said, drawing Sirius closer again, but facing him this time so he could kiss him. No matter they had been together for weeks only, it felt a lot longer after all that had happened. Time passed at a different rate in times of war.

“I love you,” he said. Sirius made a pained sound.

“Do I have to say it back? Again?”

Kingsley rolled his eyes, burying his face in the crook of the other man’s neck. “No, git, you don’t.”

“Ah, but still.” Sirius pressed his cheek against Kingsley’s temple. “I love you too, and all that.”

It was strangely cute by virtue of not being cute at all. Though Kingsley was too tired to think about it at that juncture. Sirius had already closed his eyes. Kingsley did so himself, feeling their bodies interlaced and warm.

“It doesn’t feel like Azkaban now,” Sirius muttered.

Kingsley wanted to answer, but the other man had already fallen asleep.


End file.
